Brother
by KaizokuShojo
Summary: When Mycroft is sick and Watson is in mortal danger, Sherlock Holmes must choose what is more important to him: his blood brother or his dearest friend.
1. A Telegram

**_Brother_**

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**KS: Halloa, and welcome to another of my Sherlock Holmes fanfictions. I'm very glad that you've chosen to read it, and I hope you enjoy. This particular fanfic started from…****well, it started from boredom. And I was at a computer. So, I started writing. I have no direction at all in my mind as I sit here typing this introduction, so…let's hope and pray for the best! I'm going to attempt being more colourful and 'romantic' with my words in this one—I've never quite been as good as that as I should be. **

**And...for now...this fic shall be titled _Brother. _I may change that later. xD**

_**DISCLAIMER:**__** I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. They were created by the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

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**Sherlock Holmes** sat morosely in his chair before the fire, smoking broodingly on his favourite pipe.

It was a bitterly cold winter's evening. The wind howled about our rooms at Baker-Street, and I saw my companion's brow furrow further as he sank down into his velvet-lined armchair, his blue dressing-gown drawing around himself a bit more with the movement.

I was immensely grateful for the warm fire before me. I had been out most of the day on errands, and I still felt as if I had been chilled to my very marrow.

A knock at the door preceded our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, as she brought in a tray for tea.

"A cup of nice, hot tea will do you good, Dr. Watson," she said. "You'll pain that war wound of yours if you don't take more care with the weather."

I smiled as I took the cup she offered. The tone of her voice sounded more like a mother to a young boy that had been puddle-jumping all day than a landlady to her tenant.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson." said I.

She poured another cup and sat it on the table next to Holmes, who still stared into the fire and made no motion or acknowledgement of her presence. A frown of worry crossed my face as I stared at my friend over my teacup, but as Mrs. Hudson looked at me questioningly I smiled and thanked her for the tea. She shrugged slightly and left us, the silence again being broken only by the cheery crackling of the fire and dismal howling of the winter winds outside.

"Holmes," I finally said. "What is the matter?"

My friend had been silent the entire day, save this morning when he bid me a short "Good morning." For as long as I saw him during the day he had been pacing the short length of the sitting-room, but since I had returned he had been in his chair, hardly moving. Now I wished deeply to know what was bothering him so, for to me it did not seem that he was on a case.

"Holmes—" I said again. Holmes abruptly took the pipe out of his mouth, clasping the other hand over his lower face, his dark brows gathering as his sharp grey eyes dulled.

"What is wrong?"

"It's…Mycroft." he said finally. "He is sick."

He stared into the fire for a moment longer.

"Is he all right?" I asked, concerned.

In reply Holmes reached a long, thin, pale arm over to the desk and lifted from it a piece of paper.

"I received a telegram this morning." He said as he passed the slip over to me. "He is…all right, for now. So he says. But that doesn't hide the fact that this is the first time he has ever told me of a sickness by telegram. He never mentions when he's sick."

I took the paper and began to read to myself:—

SHERLOCK STOP AM SICK STOP AT HOSPITAL STOP DO NOT WORRY STOP WILL BE FINE STOP

MYCROFT

"Have you been out to see him?" I asked.

"No." Holmes replied. "Not yet. I'm not sure that he would want me to visit."

"Why not?"

"Because, he is a proud man, Watson. Because he doesn't want his little brother to come in, pitying him."

"Surely not, Holmes." said I.

Holmes rested his chin in his hand as he leaned on the arm rest of the chair.

"Perhaps. Regardless…" Holmes paused for a moment. "To-morrow, I will go visit him. He will, undoubtedly, act indignant, regardless of what he really feels."

I smiled inwardly. The two Holmes brothers were different in their ways, indeed, but they were invariably similar. I still felt for my friend, however, and worried for his brother. Holmes had never looked quite so concerned, and the fact that his brother had never mentioned his sicknesses before and now did so seemed to give him good grounds for concern.

"To-morrow," Holmes repeated, much more quietly as he stared again into the fire, "I will go."

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**KS: Thanks for reading! Please review, and tell me what you think of this randomly-started story so far. :D**


	2. Hospital

_**Brother**_

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**KS: Halloa, and welcome to the second chapter! I'm very glad that you're interested enough to read on and I hope you enjoy. **

**Like I said in chapter one, this particular fanfic started from my being bored and near a computer at the same time. So, I have rather little direction for this fic. I have some now, that I've typed the first chapter. It may actually be good. **…**Let's just continue to hope and pray for the best! ****I'm going to attempt being more colourful and 'romantic' with my words in this one—I've never quite been as good as that as I should be. That's more of a Watsonian-type's department, and I'm more of a Holmesian-type personality myself. XD**

**Also, in this chapter, I ****mention a hospital, but not WHICH hospital. I tried to do research, but couldn't find out anything on Victorian Hospitals. XD  
After a bit more research, I may find something of use, but for now, all I know about is a bit of Victorian medicine. Help might be appreciated. **

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. They were created by the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_**

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Holmes was quite withdrawn for the rest of the night, concern clearly written upon his aquiline features. He tried to dismiss it when he found me looking at him with concern, but he could not hide it from me. He didn't seem to sleep, for that night I heard him pacing just as I had earlier that day. Needless to say, I was quite relieved when the next morning came.

I awoke and came down to the sitting-room after I finished my toilet to find that he was, of course, already up and dressed. He was busying himself reading the agony columns of the morning papers. I took a piece of toast from the breakfast table, not feeling like eating too much that morning.

"Any more news from Mycroft?" I asked cautiously.

"No," said Holmes, not taking his eyes from the paper. "Not since yesterday."

He then looked up at me.

"You will come with me, won't you?" he asked.

"Of course, Holmes." I replied. "If you want me to."

Holmes returned to reading his paper, taking a sip of coffee. "If you don't mind."

I returned to my toast, but as I did a thought struck me.

"Holmes, do you know what hospital Mycroft is at? It did not say in the telegram."

"Yes. There aren't a lot of medical establishments that Mycroft would trust himself to—in fact, I should think the government would force him to go to only the best. They can't have their information centre out of commission."

He set the paper to the side and finished his coffee. He then stood and took up his overcoat, slipping it on.

"He didn't mention what was wrong, other than just saying he was sick." He added, taking up his gloves.

I bustled on my coat as well, knowing it was still bitterly cold outside and that Holmes would want to leave as soon as possible.

After I said a brief word to Mrs. Hudson, we stepped out onto the street, and Holmes quickly hailed a cab. A hansom rattled up and once we were inside Holmes shouted our destination, and we were off.

After about a quarter of an hour's ride we pulled up to the great building, and before we even came to a complete halt Holmes was out of the cab. He tossed the fare up to the cabby and strode over to the kerb, where he waited somewhat impatiently for me to follow.

We walked through the corridors, Holmes stopping on the way to inquire of his brother's room number, and I wondering what ailment Mycroft was suffering from.

We finally found the room, and Holmes opened the door.

Mycroft Holmes was sitting up in his hospital bed, his portly form barely covered by the meagre white bedclothes and looking rather undignified in a long nightshirt. His intense grey eyes were slightly reddened, and underneath were dark rings that bespoke ill health and want of rest. He seemed to have lost a little weight since I had seen him last. He was, however, quite alert and looking at some papers, but he looked up at us as we entered.

"Sherlock," Mycroft said.

"Hello, Mycroft." the younger said, nodding to his brother as we came in. He shut the door behind us. "How are you?"

Mycroft flashed a slight grin that wrinkled his large face, and indicated the papers before him with a snort. "I feel well enough, Sherlock. The government won't let me have any rest, however."

I saw a small smile come likewise to my friend's face. "So I see."

Mycroft tidied up the papers and sat them on the bedside table. "So is the life of one in my position." said he. He looked over at his brother, his searching eyes narrowing slightly. "You didn't have to come see me, you know. I shall be fine soon enough."

"I know, Mycroft. I just wanted to see how you were doing." My friend's own eyes grew a bit more searching, softened ever so slightly with concern.

"What have they said is ailing you, by the way?"

Mycroft paused to cough lightly. "It is nothing, Sherlock. Just a cold. The government had me to come in to be treated immediately before it got any worse."

"Is that all?" Holmes asked. "Well, brother, you don't need anything, do you? Besides the fact that you could obviously use some more sleep."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, I don't need anything else. I am quite all right."

"Good," said Holmes. "If you need anything, don't hesitate to send a wire. I'll be down here as quick as I can."

"Don't worry about me, Sherlock." said the elder Holmes, a little proudly. "I shall be fine. See to yourself, that you don't get into any deep mischief while I am laid up."

Holmes opened the door and motioned me out, looking at me with a smile, slight nod, and a raise of his eyebrows. I smiled slightly—he had been right about his brother's attitude toward his visit. Holmes turned once again to his brother before he left.

"Good-bye, brother. And don't forget—a wire will have me here in minutes."

With that we left, and soon we were once again in a cab on our way to Baker Street. Holmes had a quiet, thoughtful look about himself, though he did not look quite as worried as he did before.

"What is the matter now, Holmes?" I asked.

"It is Mycroft…" he replied thoughtfully. "I wonder at his saying that it's only a cold. It's not like him to go to hospital so easily." He looked meditative a moment more before waving it off. "I suppose it's nothing." And he began to stare out at the street.

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**KS: Thanks for reading! This story is progressing a bit more. I hope this will be interesting in the end. It should be longer than anything else I've so far posted, and hopefully better, too. **

**Also, a quick note—I also do Sherlockian art. Just go see my account at DeviantART (listed as my homepage on my profile). I'll be illustrating my other story, **_**The Adventure of the Curse of Two**_**, soon!**


	3. A Visitor

_**Brother**_

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**KS: Halloa, and welcome to the third chapter:D**

**I'm getting more and more ideas for this, so I have hopes. I should probably plan stuff out more, but it's just my nature when it comes to writing. I've become too used to making things up from scratch as I write my own series. xD**

**I wonder how well I'll be able to do this, though. I'm skilled enough with the English language, but I'm not sure if I'm the sort of writer that can keep her audience on the edge of their seats. XD ****As you can tell, this one's going to be different from the strictly canon-style stuff that I have been doing. It's more…novel-esque? It would probably help if I weren't trying to watch Jeopardy and listen to Zelda BGMs at the same time as I do this…XDD **

**Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter as well. **

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas. They were created by the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_**

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Holmes had been acting more relaxed—though, I could tell, not fully—since his visit to see his brother in the hospital. He had slept well enough that night, and after he rose at nine he busied himself with a monograph on the importance of fibres left at a crime scene—something he ensured me would be looked upon as important for a long time to come.

I smiled to myself as he sat writing, totally absorbed in his own thoughts. It had been a while since I last wrote up a case for publication, but I recalled vividly how, as I sat at my own desk, Holmes would sometimes find occasion to come up behind me and look over my shoulder curiously. I almost felt like doing the same to him, but as he sat there, so intense, enjoying what he was doing, I decided against it. Besides, I wouldn't know how to criticise it even jokingly—I must admit, most of his writings were beyond me.

Just then, the bell broke in among my thoughts, snapping me back to reality.

"Who could that be?" I asked. "A client?"

Holmes immediately looked up from his paper and sat down his pen.

"Possibly," said he. "No one has made any appointments, but there are always those that drop in unexpectedly to break the dull routine of existence."

He pushed his work to the side and turned expectantly to the door. From below, we heard Mrs. Hudson speaking loudly with a rather angry-sounding voice. A few moments later we heard a heavy tread ascending the stair and when it reached the top, the door flew open.

A large man stood framed in our doorway, his sharp, fierce eyes glancing around the room and settling on my friend. My friend glared with steely calm at this intruder, but I could not help but wonder at who this man was.

He was, as I said, quite a large man. He seemed to be as tall as Holmes, but with a far more typically athletic physique, with broad shoulders and chest. He wore a dark frock-coat, a light-grey double-breasted waistcoat, a silvery-blue cravat, and a top hat adorned his head. His square-jawed, slightly ruddy face with its thin nose and sandy blonde hair with trim little side-whiskers might have been taken for handsome, if it were not for the menace in his features.

"Holmes!" he said viciously. "You had best keep your nose out of my affairs! If you know what's good for you, that is."

"A direct warning?" said Holmes, his face as calm as a statue's. "This isn't like you, Jack Hughes."

Hughes' face twisted into a scowl.

"Like I said, _Mr._ Holmes, you mind your own affairs, and keep out of mine, or else you'll hurt a lot worse than you ever thought you could." he snarled, choosing his words carefully.

"So many have said." my friend smiled. "And yet I've yet to feel one of the hands I've put away plunge their vengeful daggers into me."

Hughes narrowed his green eyes at my companion, and shook his head warningly. "I don't follow the popular way, Mr. Holmes. Just because no one's done it yet doesn't mean it can't be done." He turned his strong figure partially away, facing Holmes for one last word. "You'll be just fine if you just listen to what I say: stay out of this. I take no responsibility for what happens if you don't."

"But I think you _will_ take responsibility, Mr. Hughes. That is why I'm in this matter in the first place—to see that you do." said Holmes.

Hughes turned his back furiously and stormed down the stairs, slamming the door after him. My friend walked over to the mantelpiece and took up his old black clay pipe, filling from the Persian slipper and lighting it.

"Who _was_ that, Holmes?" I gasped.

Holmes took a few draughts from his pipe before replying, looking somewhat thoughtful.

"That is Mr. Jackson Hughes, one of the most devilishly clever scoundrels in London." he replied. "He is originally from America—his mother is an American, but his father is English. He has spent half of his life in London, the other half in various parts of America."

"But what does he want?"

"There is a case I started on about a month ago—I haven't mentioned it because after three weeks, I met what appeared to be a dead-end. I suspected Jackson, but I couldn't get anything to incriminate him. I even burgled his house, but to no avail. And since the man was travelling on business to Chicago, I didn't see how I could progress. But now he has returned, and felt me close enough upon his trail that he's afraid. I wasn't for certain it was he, Watson, but I am now."

"But what has he done?"

"He is a vile man indeed. He has organised robberies, frauds, murders, and every other villainy a man can do for money's sake. He often not only organises them, but leads them. He still manages to remain hard to trace as the leader, despite the fact that he partakes actively in his crimes."

"But now he has made this vital flaw! Surely you can draw your net around him now, Holmes!"

"Perhaps. He is a brute, Watson, but he's very clever. He's no fool, despite that rough exterior." Holmes fell into his favourite armchair and drew his legs up.

"I must, as he said, be wary. But of course I'm not about to drop the case—I feel much good indeed will be done if I can clear both England and America of this man."

At that moment, I felt that familar awe and respect for that man rise up within me again. He was truely a patron of justice.

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**KS: Thanks for reading! I know this is a little deviation from the plot of the first two chapters, but believe me, it's going somewhere. ;) **

**You know, on a side note, I don't really know what the best categories to put this story into are—I had a great deal of trouble deciding, and I still don't think they're quite right…xD**


	4. Parting Ways

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

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**KS: Welcome to the fourth chapter of **_**Brother**_**; I'm glad you're interested enough to continue! I hope you like this chapter...it gets interesting. xD**

**There is an unfortunate little problem that I have here, and that is that I have to switch P.O.V.s entirely. I'm used to being an omniscient writer--I haven't had to deal with first person perspective switching in a while. So, I'm going to do this very simply: by stating when the POV is switching with a heading. XD**

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"Oh, thank you, Mr. Holmes!" said our visitor as she stood.

It had been four days since we had first visited Mycroft in the hospital, and since then Holmes had been engaged on a case, so he had only been to see his brother once. It was our client, the lovely but simple Miss Abigail Smith, that was now before us.

"It was nothing, Miss Smith." said Holmes, also standing. "It was really quite elementary."

"But important, all the same!" Miss Smith said with ardour. "I really must repay you somehow—your fee is too small to show my gratitude!"

"Do not worry about that—the case itself was enough of an extra."

Miss Smith looked as if she wanted to argue the point further, but a flash of womanly intuition seemed to let her know better. She took up her purse and pulled out Holmes's fee.

"Here, Mr. Holmes. And be sure, whenever and wherever I find anyone that needs help, I shall send them straight to you!"

"Thank you, Miss Smith."

I took up her gloves and gave them to her, then held open the door for her, and in a few moments she had left and we heard the hall door close behind her.

"I do hope that you're not going to use this case as material for another of your stories, Watson." said Holmes as he sat down.

"Why not?" I asked.

"It was rather too simple, and it contained absolutely no points of interest, either for the reasoner or the casual reader."

"I hadn't planned on using it," said I, "But at least it was something for you to do."

Holmes nodded, stretching his long, thin form out fully as he yawned.

"Indeed. I would have rather been focusing more on the Jackson Hughes case, however." He looked over at me. "I think I will need your assistance on it. It might also be one that you can add to your little collection."

"I should be glad to help." I replied.

"Your presence may be invaluable. Hughes has not tried anything yet, but I'm sure he will soon." my friend said, lighting a cigarette.

"That's why you've been carrying around your heaviest walking stick."

"Precisely. He thinks, undoubtedly, that his only way out of this mess is to silence my tongue. When and where the blow will fall, however, I cannot say. But, it's not as if this is the first time a villain has breathed such threats to me." He took a few long draughts from the cigarette as he sat lazily in the chair. "I don't really feel like going out right now, but I need to go and visit Mycroft."

"I would go with you," said I, "but I have some things to do myself."

Holmes stood, tossing the end of the cigarette in the fire. "That's all right." said he. "I have a few things I wish to speak with my brother about which undoubtedly would be dull to you, anyway."

He grabbed from the table his hat and some papers and from beside the door his heaviest stick and started to leave, but turned around toward me.

"Oh," he started, remembering something, "Would you drop by Bradley's for me? I am nearly out of tobacco."

"Of course." I said, smiling. "I was going there, anyway."

"Excellent. I won't be gone long."

And with that my friend disappeared through our door, setting out to go visit his sickly brother. I was looking forward to going out, for I was in a good mood, so I quickly took up my own hat, coat, gloves, and stick and likewise departed from the comfortable warmth of 221B into the crisp, winter cold.

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_**HOLMES:**_

"Mycroft," said I as I walked into my brother's room once again. My brother turned his great head toward me, and I could easily tell that he was less well than when I saw him last.

"You don't look well, brother." I remarked.

Mycroft snorted a brief laugh.

"If you had to subside on the meagre and repulsive food they serve here, you wouldn't fare so well either, Sherlock."

I allowed myself a small smile at that.

"Well, I somehow don't think it would affect me as badly." I said dryly. "How are you to-day?"

"I am no worse," Mycroft replied simply. "At least the government hasn't waged war in my absence."

"You seem to be in a good enough mood." I walked over to his bedside and pulled up a chair. "Do you feel well enough to look at a few things for me?" I handed him the papers I had brought along with me: each of them had to do with the Jackson Hughes case. I watched as my brother started to look them over.

"These are about that Hughes fellow," he said. "I thought you dropped that case."

"No, I didn't drop it. I only discontinued it until he returned from America. He paid me a visit three days ago."

Mycroft's brows rose at that. "A visit? I thought you said you weren't entirely certain about him?"

"I wasn't. But he felt me hot enough upon his trail that apparently he was nervous."

"And now he's threatened you to get off his trail."

"Indeed."

"You've been going around at least with _some_ protection." said my brother, indicating my cane. "Remember, Sherlock, you're not invincible. Keep your eyes open."

"Of course, brother. Now...what do you make of this paper?"

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_**WATSON:**_

I strolled along the street, feeling a nip at my nose from the cold but glad for the relaxed exercise. I already held a package or two, and my errands were still not nearly close to being finished. But, I thought I should surely get done and return to Baker Street before sundown. Holmes had said he was going to talk to Mycroft about some various matters, and I was sure that when he returned he would want to smoke a pipe over any problem he had, so I knew I mustn't be too late in. He was much less pleasant without his tobacco.

I turned a corner and decided to take a short-cut. I hadn't, after all, spent all these years with Sherlock Holmes and _not_ learnt a thing or two about quick routes through the great Labyrinth of London.

I smiled as I remembered one time when Holmes and I were late for a train, and he had led me through the strangest alleyways in what seemed to be the entirely wrong direction before we emerged near the station itself!

I was so absorbed in my thoughts that at first I didn't hear the step of someone following behind me…Or that the number of people in this alley had slowly been dropping as I went along until I was quite by myself.

A voice, cool and rough, came from directly behind me and sent a shiver up my spine as I felt something hard and small being pressed into my back, accompanied by an all too familiar click.

I froze.

"Good afternoon, Doctor. No, don't turn around. I wouldn't suggest it. That friend of yours hasn't let up—I told him...he's going to hurt more than he ever has."

I shivered.

I didn't have to turn around to know who it was behind me.

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**KS: Cliff-hanger! XD**

**Thanks for reading; don't forget to review!**


	5. Missing

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Welcome to the fifth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. I'm glad you're interested enough to continue! I hope you like this chapter! I had to switch to a third person sort of view now! Yay. xD**

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**Sherlock Holmes** sat in his favourite armchair next to the fire, smoking his favourite pipe, clad in his favourite dressing-gown. He was exceptionally comfortable, and his case was progressing nicely enough, giving him a wonderful bit of brain-work to occupy himself with for the night.

There was only one thing wrong.

Well, you could say there were _two_ things wrong, if you counted the dwindling amount of tobacco in his slipper, but one was much more important, and was starting to worry him.

Where was Watson?

Holmes smoked a little more heavily. He knew that he should be conserving tobacco, but matters were weighing heavily on his mind. Watson only had a few errands to do. If he had more, he would've left earlier than he did. It was now after dark—though admittedly, only just a little bit—and it would be getting very cold soon.

Had Watson met up with someone he knew and become engaged in a conversation? No, that couldn't be. Holmes knew that Watson was essentially as alone and without friends as he was. And even the few acquaintances Watson had made in the years he had been in London wouldn't keep him for this long.

Had he, then, found other business to take care of? That wasn't likely, either.

The only option Holmes could think of…was a highly unpleasant one.

Perhaps something had happened to his poor Boswell as he was out.

Holmes immediately stood, forfeiting the immensely pleasant position he had been in. What was comfort, after all, when one was unsure about their friend's safety? He hurried into his room, bustling out of his dressing-gown and into his grey coat, slipping his great-coat on over that. He sat his pipe on the mantelpiece and wrapped a cravat snugly around his neck.

He vaguely remembered Watson telling him of his errands this morning—perhaps he could start in those places. He knew that he should be able to deduce the routes Watson had taken.

But would he find him? Surely, he would.

He was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. Hunting down people was his specialty, and he had begun with fewer clues than this before and come out successfully.

He dashed down the stairs, skipping the last four entirely, and opened the door to leave. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted quickly. "Forget about supper—I'm going out!"

He left, slamming the door behind him.

First, he would try the tobacconist's. That would have surely been his last stop—if he hadn't been there yet, then…

Well, there remained the possibility that he had been held up somewhere. His absence didn't mean some ill event had befallen him.

He entered the tobacconist, his nostrils bombarded with the mixtures of various scents of tobacco, and stepped up to the counter.

"May I ask," Holmes said quickly, "if my friend Watson has been here to-day?"

The clerk shook his head, a bit surprised to see his famous client so flushed.

Holmes looked down thoughtfully, and without another word to the slightly puzzled man behind the counter, turned upon his heel and exited. The next place…where did Watson say he would go? To go to the post office now would be useless—it was unlikely that anyone there would remember if Watson had been there or not, with as many people that went in and out of there each day.

Holmes started off down the street. He was too concentrated to take a cab, and so trudged forward through the bitter winter winds. He was a quarter of an hour's walk away from Baker Street before he even realised he had forgotten his gloves at home. He shoved his bare, numb hands into his pockets and continued forward.

This would be a long night. There was a distinct chance that he was just being overly paranoid—that all of this was just the result of his overactive mind, and that Watson was probably back in their warm sitting-room right now, wondering where his friend was, and why he hadn't returned from visiting his brother yet.

Yes, if he went home now, he would probably find Watson.

That's what he tried to tell himself, anyway. But his mind wouldn't listen. His instincts were aroused—something was definitely amiss. Something was _wrong_.

He remembered Watson saying something about being out of something…what was it? Holmes reprimanded himself for being too absorbed in the newspaper that morning to listen properly to what his friend had been saying. Ah! That was it. He was out of paper—he wanted to write up a case they had been engaged in a month ago. He had to go and buy another packet or two of foolscap.

Holmes turned onto the street that would lead him to the shop that Watson always bought his paper from. They should remember if Watson had been there or not.

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It was very early in the morning as Holmes opened the door of 221B Baker Street, stepping inside and shoving his house-keys back into his pocket. He hurriedly went up the stairs to the sitting-room and looked in to find—no Watson. His chest tightened.

He dashed even faster up the next set of stairs to Watson's bedroom. Without knocking, he threw the door open to find—no one.

He had been right.

His fists clenched.

His search had been completely unsuccessful. Other than two shopkeepers, he could find no one that knew where Watson was. He had traversed all of the probable routes his friend could have taken, and had even questioned the police and various bystanders on said routes. There was no clue as to where Watson had gone, or what had happened to him.

Holmes tiredly made his way back to his sitting-room. After he found that the last shops hadn't seen Watson, his worries and suspicions had intensified, and before returning home he had told the boys at the Yard to keep a sharp eye out for anything that might lead to Watson.

Holmes knew that for now, he couldn't do anything. He went over to the mantelpiece and took up his pipe and proceeded to fill it…before realising that there was nothing to fill it with.

The Great Detective threw his head back in an exasperated sigh. No one knew how much he needed a smoke right now. He began to rummage through the incredible litter of papers that were lying about for a cigarette—he would have to clean this place up one of these days—when his eyes fell upon something on the dining-table.

It was a letter.

Holmes stepped over to it and ripped it open, at first tiredly and casually glancing over the contents. But his attention was soon arrested thoroughly by this letter.

"Dear Mr. Holmes,

I regret to inform you that your dear friend Dr. Watson will be spending some time with me now. I told you, you had best keep off my business, and you didn't. You see now what comes of not listening to what other people say. Don't make any hasty moves.

Dr. Watson gives his regards.

--J.H.

The letter crumpled in the detective's pale hands. His breath caught in his chest…his heart pounded.

They had Watson.

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**KS: Cliff-hanger again!**

**I hope you're not upset with me for having to worry you with both brother Mycroft's health AND poor Watson! xD**

**Things are getting interesting—another update to come soon, I hope!**


	6. Prisoner

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the sixth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. I'm very happy to see I have some of you so interested. I actually don't like this chapter very much at all...I can't quite put my finger on why, but I don't. But I hope you enjoy!**

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**It** is certainly not pleasant to be forced at gunpoint to get into a train and speed off to God-knows-where, knowing that you're being used to torture the best friend you have in the world.

Dr. Watson was no Sherlock Holmes, but even he could have figured _that_ out without actually having to experience it. But, alas, that was the situation he had been placed in. After being forced into a four-wheeler, forced into a train, and forced into _another_ cab after disembarking the train—all at the firing end of a pistol—Watson was quickly growing tired of travel. And he was also growing tired of the absolute care that Jackson Hughes was taking in seeing that he had no chance of escape. There hadn't even been a slight chance to send a message to someone. Hughes was clever, all right. Annoyingly so.

Hughes held his sharp green eyes on Watson tightly, and he smiled venomously as he discerned the doctor's thoughts.

"It's not going to do you any good to look for escape, Doctor." he said with a smirk. "If you make any false moves, your friend back in London gets it. If he makes any false moves—you're the one who pays." He then gestured to the two other men in the cab—one beside himself and the other seated next to Watson. "These boys certainly aren't the only help I've got. But, mind you, they're capable."

Watson didn't need to be told that. The two men looked quite strong, and each of them also had a gun on their person. They had met with Hughes at the station, and had kept their eyes on Watson on the train just as they were doing now. Hughes looked at his watch.

"I think it's time that we ensured you don't know where you're going. Brown, if you don't mind."

Watson knew the words assuredly were not good, but before he could react the man called Brown hit him over the head with the butt of his pistol, and everything went dark.

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"I...I'm not sure what to do, brother." said Sherlock Holmes as he shifted nervously on his feet and fiddled with his watch-chain. He looked out the window at the fog-blanketed city of London, and then turned to his brother.

Mycroft Holmes still looked very ill—he might have lost even more weight. He held the letter from Hughes in his large hands and turned it over thoughtfully.

"You must go after him, of course." the elder Holmes said.

"Yes, I know that. But what course of action shall I take? You know just as much of this Jackson Hughes as I—he's capable of anything, and impossible to bargain with." Holmes sighed, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets. He began to pace the room.

"Which is very curious in itself—he seems as if he's trying to bargain with you now."

"He is trying to play every card in his hand—several, might I add, that are against the rules of the game—to get me to drop the case." Holmes paused at the window again, looked at his watch, and proceeded to pace once more.

"Sherlock, do stop that infernal pacing. I feel too ill to watch you bounce about the room."

Holmes walked back over to the window and leaned against the sill, crossing his wiry arms and staring with concentration at the floor.

"Now, clear your mind and think, Sherlock. He has sworn to make you hurt like you never thought you could. He has the Doctor—he has sent a letter to tell you so. It is very likely that the Doctor's life is in danger."

"Of course it is...Anyone can see _that_. But how am I to save Watson?"

"_Clear_, Sherlock. This was, of course, planned beforehand. This letter was written not too long ago, but certainly not yesterday. It was dropped off with no sender's address, so we don't know how to find them by that. Do you know where they have gone?"

"They must have gone out of London—they surely would not have risked trying to keep Watson here, where he could very easily get a message out to the police or to someone else."

"The country, then?"

"I think so. But Hughes has more than one country retreat—to which one could he have taken Watson?" Holmes started to nervously play with his watch now—opening and closing it absentmindedly.

"Will he even keep Watson alive?"

Holmes froze.

"I am...sorry, Sherlock. I should not have said that."

"No...Mycroft, it is...all right. We must think of all possibilities." Holmes said hesitantly, his voice quiet.

"Well, if he knows that Dr. Watson is that close to you, then surely he also knows that if he was to take his life, then he would lose all hope of getting you to drop the case."

"Possibly."

"You don't think so?"

"Hughes is extremely unpredictable. He has mastered the art of throwing one off his trail."

"But, so far, you have seen past all of his attempts to do so. Surely at this you can—" Mycroft then suddenly broke into a fit of coughing. He sat upright in his bed and continued for some minutes, until finally he stopped and leaned back in his bed, pale and exhausted.

"Sherlock, I wish you would go." Mycroft said, hoarsely at first.

Concern was visibly written on the younger Holmes's face, and his brows furrowed at his brother's sentiment.

"Go? Go where?" he asked, puzzled.

"Away—out of here."

The look of puzzlement, looking quite unnatural on the face of a Holmes, increased.

"Why, brother?"

Mycroft paused a moment, coughing lightly once more to clear his throat.

"...If you get sick also, you won't be able to look for the doctor. Go. Now."

The hurt on the younger Holmes's face was clear. Then, his dark brows drew together. "Just how sick are you, Mycroft?" he said, his voice imbued with a tone of strong suspicion.

Mycroft glared at his younger sibling with his intense, watery grey eyes.

"I've said not to worry about me. You have enough on your hands with the doctor's kidnapping. Now, please, Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes sighed. He wasn't about to get anywhere arguing with Mycroft. Never argue with someone smarter than yourself.

"All right," Holmes assented, "I'll go. But if you need anything, I swear, one telegram will have me here as fast as mortal transport will allow."

Mycroft nodded, giving his brother a small smile. "Of course. Good-bye, Sherlock."

"Good-bye, Mycroft."

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Blackness seemed to swirl around Watson like a thick, tangible fog. As he slowly came to his senses, the first thing he noticed was a throbbing pain in his head. The second thing he noticed was that he really didn't want to open his eyes. The third and fourth things that he noticed were that he didn't remember where he was, or what he was doing there.

But, he was pretty certain that he was moving a lot.

This, when his dull mind started considering it, was rather strange, since he wasn't purposely doing so.

He forced his eyes to open, and when his brain registered the images they took in, he realised he was being carried by two rough-looking men.

Everything started coming back to him: going out on errands, being taken by that Hughes fellow, being knocked out in the cab—

Watson immediately started to struggle, to try and break free from the villains' grasp, and with a thrill he felt the ruffians release him. But unfortunately, Watson's hands and feet were thoroughly tied, and he only succeeded in falling to the floor and nearly banging his head again. His face flushed into a deep red with a mix of anger and embarrassment as he heard the two men over him laugh.

Jackson Hughes, who was in front of them, turned and sighed. "Don't take all day in getting him there, hurry up!" he said impatiently.

The two men stiffened, and immediately bent to pick Watson up. There wasn't a lot he could do. All three men, in all probability, still had their guns, and there were doubtless more men in the house.

And for the first time, Watson realised that they were in a house. It was large and expensively decorated—just the sort of thing one would expect Hughes to have. So, Watson thought, Hughes had taken him to his own house! Surely Holmes would have very little trouble in finding him there. Surely.

They carried Watson down a carpeted corridor, and turned at the end into a door that Hughes opened for them. They threw Watson down into a heavy chair and tied him even more thoroughly, securing him to it.

Hughes laughed smugly. He walked over close to Watson and sat upon the edge of a table, staring at him for a while in silence as he pulled out a silver cigarette case. He drummed on it with his fingers, and finally took out a single cigarette.

"All right, Dr. Watson," he said, lighting the cigarette, "Now, we wait." He raised his eyebrows and nodded to the man nearest Watson, who struck him violently across the face.

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**KS: Thanks for reading! Please, don't forget to review! I'm updating fairly regularly now, but I might slow down if I don't see those reviews! Go on! I know you're literate! XD **


	7. Index search

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the seventh chapter of **_**Brother**_**. I see I have some of you waiting anxiously for more! Well, it's a holiday to-day, so I can write some. I have to think of what to do next as I go along, because only the end is in sight, not the middle, so I have to reason backwards, as always when I write. xD**

**Well, enjoy!**

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**Sherlock Holmes **silently chided his untidiness once again as he tossed paper after paper behind him. Sometimes he felt as if he would lose his body if his brain weren't attached to it. He was searching for one of his indexes…one that would help him decide which the best place to start looking for Watson was. He tossed aside a great scrap-book

Watson would know where it was. Watson had learnt that it was important to memorise the "system" of Holmes's characteristic messiness—that things generally ended up in the same but odd sort of places. Holmes _sometimes_ forgot himself where things were. Generally, one or the other of them would know where something was.

Holmes smiled lightly as he uncovered a piece of broken teacup. He remembered how the fine piece of china had been reduced to such a state: Watson had been taking tea one day when he had burst in unceremoniously, shouting about how he had made a grand new discovery on a case. And Watson had dropped the cup, shattering it and spilling tea all over the rug. Obviously, all of the pieces had not been cleaned up. Holmes put it to the side and continued on his search.

_Watson. _

Holmes nearly cursed himself. How could he have been so _foolish_ as to not realise that Hughes could and probably _would_ go after Watson!? It was an obvious mode of attack to a villain and scoundrel—and Holmes had completely ignored it. He had thought the blackguard would make an attempt on…well, like most crooks had done, Holmes had thought the target would be himself. And he felt perfectly capable of fending off most any attack.

Especially when Watson was near.

Whenever he was careless about himself during an investigation, Watson would always be there—ready with his revolver, as unconcerned for himself as any person could ever be. Watson was truly very admirable for that.

And Holmes had forgotten completely to make sure he was safe. He had been too involved with the case. He had given relatively little thought to his own safety…and none to his only friend's.

Yes, Sherlock Holmes felt very stupid right now.

"Aha!" he cried, leaping up as he located the index. His long, thin fingers flew as they leafed quickly through the pages, his grey eyes searching. He finally found the entry he was looking for. Jackson Hughes…Jackson Hughes…

Halloa! He had three properties outside of London...! One was quite insignificant, one was a fair little piece of land, and the last was a very fine house indeed. Now…he had to think of which of these Hughes had taken poor Watson to…what would be the safest, most logical place in Hughes's mind…

At that time, Mrs. Hudson walked in with a tray.

"Mr. Holmes, I have your lunch." She said, a bit soberly. She hadn't taken the news of Watson's kidnapping well, either. To her, these strange tenants of 221B had become like family—one would hardly be able to put up with them if they hadn't!

"No thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not hungry." Holmes said, putting a slip of paper into the book to mark the place and going over to fetch his pipe.

"But you_ will_ eat, Mr. Holmes." The landlady said firmly, setting the tray onto the table. "You haven't eaten a _thing_ since you came back after looking for Dr. Watson."

Holmes looked up at her somewhat impatiently, tossing the index book onto the desk with some force. He felt the dull pangs of hunger, yes, now that she had _mentioned_ food. But he could not, _would not_ spare the energy and _focus_ it took to eat.

"I _cannot_ eat now, Mrs. Hudson," said he. "I'm far too busy. I must concentrate."

"But you can't run forever on an empty stomach, Mr. Holmes. You'll exhaust yourself, and then what will the Doctor do? Just eat a little." And with that she left.

Holmes stepped over to the table to see what she had prepared—there was a pot of strong coffee, at least. God bless that woman. Holmes reluctantly took up a piece of toast and absentmindedly began to eat. As annoying as it would be, she was right. He would have to eat occasionally. It was more than just his neck on the line now.

He couldn't think about more important things as he ate, so his mind wandered to his visit with Mycroft. His brother had not looked well, and that cough had sounded absolutely terrible. And he had told him to leave so very abruptly...

It was certainly not a cold that his elder brother was sick with. Holmes had known that already of course…there was no way that Mycroft would let himself be hospitalised with _just_ a cold, for one thing. And a cold would certainly not make him look so miserable. Holmes poured himself a cup of coffee. His brother was trying to keep him from worrying, he knew, but it wasn't working. He downed the cup of coffee—nearly choking when he had forgotten it was still fairly hot, despite the milk—and proceeded to pour himself another.

He had _two_ people to worry over now, although his brother didn't seem to be in quite as bad of a situation as Watson. Holmes drank that cup and began to pace again, lighting his pipe and gratefully inhaling the strong smoke. He looked at the index again, thoughtfully, and then tossed it angrily aside.

_Every moment I hesitate,_ he thought bitterly, _the danger Watson is in increases._

Blast it all.

He couldn't just sit around. He couldn't just rush out there after him. There were still a few details he needed to work out, and he was waiting on a telegram from one of connections in the criminal world.

For once, there seemed to be nothing he could do. He growled angrily as he kicked his chair over. He could not take much more of this. His keen spirit was chafing against the inaction.

But there was very little he could do before that telegram came. He would have to wait just a little longer….He prayed that Watson could, too.

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**KS: Thanks so much for reading! Please, don't forget to review! **

**Chapter eight should come soon...I'm about two-thirds through it, I think.**


	8. Worse

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the eighth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. I know I said that it's a holiday, and that I should be able to write a bit more, but unfortunately, both my parents, nephew, and grandfather are all sick at the same time…So I've had less time than I thought I would. I should've already had this chapter posted. XD**

**I might have a chapter nine up to-night, though. Maybe!**

**Well, enjoy!**

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**Mycroft** broke miserably again into another intense fit of coughing, which ended in his gasping for air and nearly vomiting from the violence of the attack. He sighed as he leaned back a bit—though not too much, for doing so would result in _another_ fit of coughing.

He tried to take a drink of water—nearly choking as another spasm of coughs tried to start—and managed to get some down. He felt as if he were dehydrated, which was very likely the case. He was also profoundly hungry, but he did not feel like eating. Not only did he choke almost every time he ate, but he didn't seem to have the _energy _to do so. It was no wonder he was losing weight.

He wasn't resting very well, either.

He felt bad for ordering Sherlock out like that earlier, but he had no choice. He was quite contagious, and Sherlock could _not_ afford to get sick.

Poor Sherlock was the type that whenever something was weighing on his mind, he would not eat, and rarely slept. Mycroft was trying his best to keep him from worrying. His younger brother already had more than enough on his shoulders right now, with the kidnapping of his friend Dr. Watson.

Mycroft set a great, clammy hand on his forehead. His fever felt as if it was getting worse. The fact that he _had _a fever was bad enough—he hadn't had one when he came in. And though his head felt as if it was burning up, the rest of him was severely chilled. Mycroft shuddered as he tried to draw the covers up more adequately over himself.

There was one thing he was certain of at this point. He was most certainly _not_ 'fine,' as he had repeatedly told his brother.

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**Watson** tried for the thousandth time to loose himself. They had done an extraordinarily good job in tying him up. His wrists were a bit raw now, so he knew he would have to take a break from his attempts to free himself that way for a short while.

There were two men in the room watching him now. One was asleep on the sofa next to the window, and the other was awake, sitting in a chair several feet away, and he was watching Watson closely. These two weren't the same ones that had been with him earlier—they had left a few hours earlier, and these had come to take their place.

"What do you think you're going to do once you get those ropes loose?" the one that was awake asked with a laugh after he saw Watson's occupation. "Run away? Not likely." He tapped the pocket Watson knew held his pistol. Watson frowned at him, trying to send him as defiant a glare as he could.

"If we let you even get one hand loose," the sentry continued, filling and lighting his pipe, "the boss'll have our hides." He smirked at the doctor. "So you can imagine, I'm sure, what we're going to do to you fer tryin' like you've been."

He stood and walked over to Watson, a grin of pleasure on his face.

"Wait," said Watson as the brute raised a hand to strike him. "Hughes said that you mustn't beat me too much yet." He had remembered the conversation Hughes had with his men when they first started to beat him:

"_All right…" said Hughes, "don't beat him too much, now. We've got to save some for later." __He flashed a devilish smirk at Watson. "Your friend is really going to enjoy what we have planned, I'm sure."_

_Watson glared at him, his nose and a burst lip both sending ribbons of blood down his face._

_And Hughes struck him again._

Watson hadn't understood what he meant entirely, but he knew that he wouldn't be much help when Holmes arrived if he was too abused, so he had to avoid being hit whenever possible.

"Oh?" said the thug. "Well, don't worry; I won't hit you too much."

And he dealt a blow to Watson's stomach.

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**Sherlock Holmes** was still pacing the room, even though it was getting late. He had looked over all of the papers, articles, and significant clues that he had on the Hughes case. He felt sufficiently certain that he knew everything he _could_ know about Hughes at this time.

He stepped over to the window and looked out at the street. Then, he went over to the table and poured himself yet another cup of strong coffee—how many had he drank now? He couldn't even remember, but the pot was much lighter now than it was when it came in. He sat for a moment, drumming his fingers nervously on the table.

Where was that telegram? He _must_ have it. The sooner, the better.

After a few moments, there was a knock at the sitting-room door. Holmes sprang up and virtually leapt to the door, throwing it open wide. It was Mrs. Hudson…and she had the telegram.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" Holmes cried out, unceremoniously snatching it from her hands. He ripped it open, and relief spread in the form of a grin as he saw the contents were exactly what he wanted.

"Mr. Holmes,

Jack Hughes takes his dangerous business most at Penton Manor. Always has a good number of men on guard then. Varies position of men and stores in the house often. Can't tell where anything would be for certain.

—R.S.

Holmes gave an unintelligible cry of satisfaction as he dashed off toward his room to grab his hat and coat, along with the rest of what he might need: his burglary kit, his revolver, _Watson's_ revolver, and extra bullets.

An extremely dangerous task lay before him, and if he was not careful, his friend would suffer. Finally, he would get to rescue his flatmate, his biographer, his _friend…_His _dearest_ friend. His _only_ friend. Adrenaline coursed through his wiry frame, and, aided by the immense amount of caffeine, he was sure that he was up to the challenge. He considered going to Scotland Yard to acquire the assistance of an inspector and a few good men, but there was no time. It would take a lot of time to convince them of the danger, and he already had the time it would take to get to Penton Manor to worry about. He would be all alone on this until Watson was free.

And even then, it would be two against much more than that.

He flew out the door of the sitting-room, down the stairs, and threw open the door…to find a messenger-boy.

"Mr. Sherlock 'olmes?" the lad asked.

Holmes nodded quickly. "Yes?"

The boy handed him a telegram. "For you, sir."

Holmes took it, and stared at it for a moment in puzzlement. Another telegram? This…must be more information on Hughes!

"Thank you," Holmes said to the boy. The boy nodded, and left.

Holmes tore open this one and quickly devoured its message.

And the colour immediately drained from his face.

"Mr. Sherlock Holmes,

Your brother instructed us to contact you in the event that his condition worsened enough that he himself could not contact you. His message is to come at once."

It was from the hospital.

"Mycroft…" Holmes gasped, stumbling backwards and seating himself on the bottom of the stairs.

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**KS: Ah, I know how poor Mycroft feels with his coughing…I've been there before. DX **

**And I made up the name of Mr. Hughes's house, yes.**** And I was halfway distracted when I did it, so if it sounds wrong or sounds similar to something else, I'm sorry. xD**

**Thanks for reading! I hope I have you still anticipating more! Don't forget to review!**


	9. More than he can bear

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the ninth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. This is really getting good, apparently, if anything's to be told by your reviews. I'm sorry I got much less done to-day than I had hoped. I did NOT expect for so much sickness to grasp my family so quickly. **

**Well, enjoy**** the chapter!**

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**Sherlock Holmes **was speeding along the darkening streets of London in a hansom cab, racing toward the hospital, the bitter wind biting his face with its chill.

He clenched and unclenched his hands nervously. He had been right. Mycroft was worse than he would say. But how bad was he now…?

He felt sick.

Half of his mind was screaming out to go to Watson, half of his mind was screaming out for his brother. Both could be in danger.

He scowled as he saw the speed they were going. It did not seem nearly fast enough. He had promised a guinea if the cabby could get him there as quickly as humanly possible…

"Come! Faster, if you can!!" Holmes cried out, knocking on the roof of the cab.

The cabby whipped up the horse further, increasing their speed a little bit.

Holmes's heart was racing. Perhaps he shouldn't have drunk that much coffee while he was waiting for the telegram.

Blast that second telegram! Why did this have to happen now, of all times!?

If it had occurred during a normal case, which would not suffer for being left alone for a while, it would have been fine. It had to happen now…during this one…

In a few minutes, the hansom pulled up to the hospital, and Holmes immediately jumped out, tossing the fare to the driver. He raced inside and found a doctor.

"Excuse me," Holmes said, almost breathlessly. He paused for a moment, regaining as much of his calm composure as he could. It would not do to be out of sorts in a crisis. That he knew. "I received a telegram about Mycroft Holmes—"

"Ah, you must be his brother. So you're the famous Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," Holmes said, the impatience unmistakable in his voice, "Is my brother all right?"

"Ah, I'm afraid not, but he's still awake—"

Holmes had grown tired very quickly of this man. When hearing that his brother was awake, he marched off toward his room, and hurriedly went inside.

"Mycroft!" he cried.

The elder Holmes looked up in surprise. "Sher—" He had started to speak, but he was cut off by a round of painful-sounding, deep, shaking coughs, but quickly caught his breath this time. "Sherlock, what are you doing here?" Mycroft demanded.

"I received a telegram from the hospital," Holmes replied, walking over to his brother's bedside. "What is wrong with you, brother? I demand you tell me now."

Mycroft, now looking very ill, sighed as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Those nurses—I told them not to wire you unless I worsened!"

"That's what the telegram said."

Mycroft sighed again. "Well, I _am_ worse…but this is not what I meant."

"But what is the matter, Mycroft?" Holmes asked again, more firmly than before.

"…I came in with pertussis, and now I have pneumonia. Please, Sherlock, do step back."

"Pertussis?" Holmes asked. "Whooping cough? And it has progressed into pneumonia—how severe?"

Mycroft coughed a little again, clearing his throat of the heavy phlegm that had accumulated in his bronchi.

"…Severe enough. But I shall be fine, Sherlock. Go see about Dr. Watson."

"No, brother, I mean……" Holmes stopped and sighed loudly. "The doctors felt you were bad enough to warrant sending me a wire, so tell me! How ill are you? Please, Mycroft." He shouted, his voice softening at the end.

The two Holmes brothers locked eyes for a moment in silence.

"The doctors say that it doesn't look good for me, Sherlock." Mycroft finally said.

Holmes's face fell.

"But surely it's treatable." he said softly.

"Please, Sherlock. Don't look that way." Mycroft said. He paused. "They say there is little they can do."

Holmes swallowed, his face deadly pale. He sat down heavily in the seat beside his brother's bed and said nothing for a while, but just stared blankly at the wall. He ran a thin, clammy hand over his face.

"I have time." Mycroft continued. "You can go and rescue the doctor, and I will still be here when you return."

Holmes was quiet a few moments more.

"But, Mycroft…" said he at last, turning. "…God help me, I know I want to go rescue Watson. But I cannot just _leave_ you…" He ran his hands through his hair, and then sat his elbows on his knees and sunk his face into his hands. He stayed there, absolutely unsure, until a violent fit of coughing from his brother began.

"Mycroft!" Holmes said, sitting up with a start.

Mycroft waved Holmes off, trying to cover his mouth. He grabbed his side in pain as he continued; the fit lasted for some minutes, with few chances for breath in between. Finally, the coughing ceased, and the elder Holmes gasped for air.

"Mycroft! Are you all right?" Holmes asked.

Mycroft nodded. His fleshy face was flushed and again, it was covered with profuse sweat. He wiped it off with a handkerchief and sighed when he had regained his breath.

"I did not vomit this time—that's always a relief." He said. He turned his grey eyes on his younger brother. "I-I will be fine until you return, Sherlock. You _must_ go."

Holmes slowly nodded, then stood. "Please, Mycroft, know that I am _not_ abandoning you. I just have to save Watson right now—before it's too late. I will be back soon, with Watson."

"Good-bye, Sherlock. And be _careful_, please."

"Good-bye, Mycroft. I will."

And Holmes walked to the door. He opened it, stepped out, and turned once more to face Mycroft.

"Good-bye, brother."

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Jackson Hughes walked into the room where they were holding Watson.

"So," the sinister man said loudly enough to wake the dozing Watson, "How are we faring in here?"

Watson sat up with a start, but soon was at his senses enough to know who was talking to him, and glared at the man.

"Feeling all right, Doctor?" Hughes asked, standing before him.

Watson, truly, was not feeling all that great. He was well-bruised in several places, and blood was dried on his face, not to mention the soreness from having to sit, restrained, in the same position for hours on end.

"I suppose not." Hughes said, seeing that Watson wasn't going to answer. "It's well past time that we got you something to eat, isn't it?"

Hughes leaned in to Watson's face. "You probably haven't had anything to eat in a while…it was past lunch when you left Baker Street, and we haven't fed you anything."

Watson still said nothing. He didn't want to give Hughes the satisfaction. Hughes stood up straight again, setting his hands on his hips.

"Well, you don't have to be so amiable." He turned and nodded to a man nearby, who brought over a tumbler full of water. "I'm still not going to feed you, of course. But I'm not as cruel as all that, so you will get some water."

The man held the glass to Watson's dry lips, and Watson drank. He knew it could be drugged, and he did contemplate spitting it out at Hughes, but he refrained from doing so. They could _easily_ kill him other ways, and if he was going to last this out, he would need to be hydrated. And he was very, very thirsty.

"Good, good, at least you'll drink. We don't want you to get too badly off before your friend arrives."

A warning flashed in Watson's head. There were those same sorts of words… Essentially, that he was to be saved from mistreatment for the most part until Holmes arrived. Watson _knew_ that meant something…but he could not piece together what the significance was. How he wished his friend was here!

How long was it going to take before Holmes found where he was being kept? Surely, as he first thought, it would not be long. This was obviously Hughes's home.

But what sort of a chance would Holmes have when he arrived? From what he had seen and heard, this place is certainly well-guarded. He might be captured as well.

Hughes leaned upon a table, crossing his arms against his broad, muscled chest and stared down at Watson with sharp green eyes.

"Well, Doctor, I recommend that you sleep some more. It will pass the time until your friend arrives…when he finally gets here."

He cocked his head. "And I'm sure he will." He flashed another devilish grin.

_Please, Holmes,_ Watson thought, _Do be careful with this devil…_

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**KS: Ah, whooping cough is quite hellish if it's bad enough, especially if you get pneumonia as a complication…Poor Mycroft…**

**Well, that answers the question of what's wrong with him, at least, for those who asked.**

**Thank you for reading. Please, don't forget to review!**


	10. On the Train

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the tenth chapter of **_**Brother**_

**Now, things are starting to get interesting, are they not? What will happen to Watson? Why are they waiting for Holmes? What will happen to Mycroft? Will he live? Will he die? Will he get married to a skinny little blonde and—wait, that's someone else's fic. XDD**

**Please, enjoy the chapter!**

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Holmes settled down onto one of the seats of the first-class train car as it rattled out of the station. He settled back into the cushions with a weary sigh, pressing a thin hand to his forehead.

This was why he didn't get emotionally involved. He always had care and concern for his clients, of course, along with their best interests, but there was always just enough detachment where he was unbiased—where he could be the most effective on a case. He was a machine, set to discover, protect, know, and whatever else was needed.

But that was impossible in this situation.

And now, Mycroft was sick...direly ill. Mycroft was his _brother_, one of the very few people in the world he could confide in. He could trust Mycroft completely, utterly.

And Watson...Watson was one of the other select few. Probably the only other.

Holmes pulled out a cigarette and lit it, ignoring the fact that it was a non-smoking car. He had to calm down. He _must_ regain his focus; must clear his mind. All he had to do was start using the cold, clear reasoning he was so famous for.

He began to re-evaluate and revise his data and plans. The information he had received in the first telegram was extremely vital. Hughes constantly repositioned his household, ensuring that no visitor could be certain of anything's positioning after they had left. Holmes could obtain no solid data on the house. Watson could be almost anywhere in there. Of course, he would not be in a place that would be easy to get to, so that eliminated _some_ possibilities. Hughes could be in any part of the house, too.

Holmes knew that he was about to embark on an extremely dangerous mission. He was about to sneak through a very well-guarded house, knowing not where he was going, save by quick observations and deductions. And he would have to remain undetected the entire time, or else they could hurt Watson before he reached him. Or be captured and killed.

And Jackson Hughes was not a man who was afraid to kill. In some circles, he was only known as Jack the Devil. And that's what he really was. People had often been fooled by that handsome, healthy exterior. They hadn't seen the serpant underneath. Men had been drained of every shilling they had once under his grip--if not that, then their blood was the price. Women had been drawn to him, and always they left him as broken shadows of what they had been. Hughes often left the 'dirtier' jobs to the men underneath him, and only did the planning. But if anyone crossed him...Hughes was reputed to have a flaming, vengeful temper.

And Holmes had crossed him.

Holmes…did not want to kill anyone. That would be an absolute last resort. But if they had killed Watson…then, he would quite possibly kill them. Probably kill them. He could not be certain what the anger would make him do. But, he did know one thing.

For Watson, he was quite ready to give his very life.

He pulled out both revolvers, checking once more to make sure that every chamber was loaded and ready. He had brought both along not only for ease of protection, but also so he could give Watson's to him for protection after he had freed him.

He slipped both pistols back under his coat. He then pulled out his burglary kit and inspected it—it was fully prepared, also. That also went back into his coat.

He planned on leaving his outer coat in some bushes somewhere...It would be too cumbersome to wear for sneaking about a house.

After checking his equipment, Holmes settled back in his seat again, smoking his cigarette and going over his plans a few dozen more times. He would free Watson to-night. Or he would die trying.

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**KS: Cliff-hanger! I have a tendency to do those, you know. I can never resist a touch of the dramatic. But, it was really extremely short, so I'll HOPEFULLY have another up to-night. (Which, that means, if I post it will be around 1-1:30 at the latest.)**


	11. Across the Grounds

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the eleventh chapter of **_**Brother**_**. I apologise for the brevity of the last chapter...I was babysitting my baby nephew while I wrote it. xD**

**But I have some lovely new MP3s of Zelda songs done with strings that I downloaded to-day, and hopefully they will get my creative juices really flowing for this chapter, so I hope this one make****s up for it. **

**Please, enjoy!**

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**Sherlock Holmes** quickly and carefully got off the train, looking about with keen grey eyes for anyone suspicious. It was certainly a possibility that Hughes had someone watching the trains for him, for it was also a very great possibility that he expected him.

He did, after all, have his best friend captive…All because Holmes had roused Hughes's temper by investigating his case, and had refused to drop it.

Holmes slipped through the few people that had been on the train. Unfortunately, the number was not very large. It was now eleven o'clock. There were few people for him to blend into, but it also allowed him to keep a sharper eye on all of the people around him. It would be easier to tell if someone was watching _him_.

Holmes huffed a little, realising just how cold it was as he concentrated his heightened senses to be aware of his surroundings. It wasn't just cold. It was very cold, and it seemed as if the temperature was dropping. His breath was condensing before him, and he pulled up the collar of his coat. His eyes maintained their vigilant watch as he walked along. So far, there were no signs of anyone following him. That was very good.

Penton Manor was, according to the maps he had consulted earlier, about a mile's walk from the station. That wasn't too bad. Holmes had a heavy stick with him for protection, and he swung it out determinedly as he strode along at a good pace.

And determined was exactly what he was that night. He would not fail.

He prayed silently as he went that everything would work out.

The night was quiet and dark—despite the people that had been at the station, the roads were quiet…deserted. The wind, coming and going in small gusts, wailed through the trees, whose few remaining leaves rattled and rustled on the swaying branches. Watson would only have described it as eerie and foreboding. That was pretty good…he would have to remember it for later, when Watson would surely write this adventure up.

Every now and then, Holmes thought he heard steps among the rotted, fallen leaves from the past autumn, but when he glanced about, there was no one. Not even the shadows could conceal a man from him, especially not in a place like this, where there was little enough cover about for a grown man.

It did not take long as he walked to find a low, stone wall running alongside the road, marking the Manor's property. Holmes knew that he couldn't just walk in through the front gate—he would have to scale a wall at some point and make his way across the grounds. If he continued on the road, he would only meet with a higher wall, and would be more likely to run into one of Hughes's men. If he scaled the low wall he was at now, then scaled over the higher wall nearer the house…

It seemed safer, and more logical. Hopefully it would work.

There was another slight problem which Holmes wondered if he could avoid: Hughes was known to love dogs, and had quite a few fine hounds in his kennels. There was very little doubt in his mind that the animals would serve as deadly sentinels as well. What he had heard from various sources seemed to corroborate the fact. He would have to be extremely careful for them, because he was not about to let a few dogs keep him from rescuing Watson.

Holmes looked down the road both ways carefully before sending his thin, agile form easily over the low wall. He then continued on toward the house.

It was quieter somehow as he moved through the shadows, away from the road. His keen senses were on high alert, registering and taking note of every small noise, every minute movement. But then, something happened that severely hampered his plans.

The clouds that had blanketed the sky started to clear a little, and a bright moon shone through upon the countryside. There were much fewer shadows to hide in, now.

That was most certainly _not_ good.

Holmes nearly cursed himself for having not paid closer attention to the weather. He drew close to the wall, keeping somewhat low as he progressed and praying that the clouds would again veil those revealing moonbeams.

Finally, he found himself against the high wall that surrounded the house's main lawn. It was quite a lot taller than the low wall around the general grounds, and certainly it was over Holmes's head. He discarded his outer coat, like he had planned, and jumped up onto the low wall, and then leapt up to the high wall, grasping the ledge. He did not, however, immediately haul himself over. He raised himself up cautiously, searching the fairly well-lit grounds for any sign of danger.

For now, he saw no dogs, and no watchmen. Good. He pulled himself up the rest of the way and jumped down to the ground, trying to land as quietly as he could. He saw no dogs now, but any noise or strong scent might easily alert them to his presence.

He quickly resumed his stealthy march onward to the great house that loomed ahead, keeping near the wall when he could. As he went, he heard a low, throaty growl.

This case just was _not_ going his way, was it? But…the old saying of his held fairly true…the most stimulating cases were the ones where everything against you. Adrenaline was coursing through him. Holmes turned slowly toward the noise to find himself very close to a fine looking hound.

He could not hope to get away by running from this distance, and he could _not_ risk firing his gun—not out here, and _not_ this early. And his stick would only serve to elicit a yelp from the dog that would undoubtedly bring the others upon him.

There was one thing he could attempt.

"Shh…" he whispered softly and soothingly to the dog. "It's all right. You're a good boy, aren't you? Shh…"

Holmes was careful to be as completely unthreatening and calming to the dog as he possibly could. He just hoped that his scent wasn't different enough to incite the dog to attack him for being just a stranger—which was extremely likely.

To his complete surprise, the dog stopped snarling. It cocked its head, curiously raising an ear, and began to wag its tail. Holmes nearly laughed. He took it one step further, carefully kneeling a little and reaching out to scratch the dog behind its ears. Just as surprisingly—and quite thankfully—the dog started panting happily, and wagged its tail more vigourously.

Holmes sighed inwardly from relief. Though, he knew, this was probably a singular dog out of the pack, and the others would _hardly_ be so quick to make friends. Holmes patted the now quite amiable dog on the head and sent him off, and continued on his way to the house.

Watson would laugh hearitly at that later. And so would he, Holmes thought, for the very idea of his calming the attack dog like that was very comical.

He looked all around him as he went with heavy scrutiny, especially at the house. Hopefully no one was watching him from there. So far, Holmes saw no silhouette at the windows, but that didn't mean someone couldn't be there. He wondered which of those lit rooms Watson would be in…if in any of the above-ground floors at all. He could even be in the wine cellar, or some place like that.

Soon, Holmes had drawn close to the house. He hid behind a great oak tree as a guard made his way around—from his count, there were two, and each of them had dogs on a lash. They had been making their way in opposite directions around the house.

There were a decent number of doors on the ground floor for him to enter, but he would be entering blind. With the way the household was switched about constantly, he had no idea what would be on the other side of those doors. A window was his best chance.

When he saw an opening, where he thought that neither the men nor dogs would notice him, he sprinted silently across the lawn, making for a darkened window. He pulled out a small jemmy and made quick work of the catch—though, he noted it was quite well done: a typical burglar would have a difficult time with it—and he slipped inside.

The room was a study of some sort, and was entirely vacant. The only light was the moon's that fell in through the window. Holmes closed the window behind him.

He was inside at last.

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**KS: You know, I've realised…I've never updated this quickly with any story I've ever done. I suppose it's all the excited reviews I'm getting. **

**Need I remind you? Review, if you please! I need to know if you liked it! And also, tell me if I make any errors! I'm running purely on instinct and grit right now, and I fear I could do better. xD**


	12. Through the House

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the twelfth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. I'm glad you're all enjoying it so far. I did this one during lunch to-day and typed it up when I got home. It would have been posted MUCH earlier, only would NOT allow me to upload anything. So, while I waited, I started working on chapter 13, so it might get done to-night. **

**I got even more excellent music to-day (Super Smash Bros. Melee Orchestrated tracks and other Nintendo excellence…) so I have some nice, relaxing, inspiring, and energising music to work along with. X3 **

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Holmes walked silently toward the empty study's door, taking the handle in hand and pressing his ear against the door. He listened carefully to discern what was on the other side.

He knew he was in somewhat of a bad spot. If anyone came by and decided to come in here…he would either have to hide very quickly or fight…and probably be discovered either way. There were few enough places to hide, anyway, the only places being behind the sofa and under the desk. Neither of them were very good for total concealment.

He heard absolutely nothing. Slowly, he opened the door and peered out--It was a corridor. He could not see to either end as well as he liked from his position, but silence pervaded and he took the chance. He stepped out fully, immediately looking both ways. Empty.

Which direction should he take? He instantly remembered that the majority of the house lay to his right, which meant that there was a greater chance Watson was in that direction. Holmes started off in that direction, wishing he had more information on the house. If this investigation had went differently, he undoubtedly would have obtained the information he so desired. But it hadn't, and now the case was at a crisis.

Watson's life was hanging in the balance.

He stalked to the end of the hall, being extremely careful as he reached the end and looked into the next room.

And quickly withdrew his head.

It was the drawing-room, and there were two men that he could see, and very likely one or two more at least. The two he could see were smoking, but were obviously on guard.

Holmes thought, but there was no workable way to get through there without being noticed and raising the alarm.

His dark brows drew together. He couldn't wait for them to change guards, especially since he was fairly in the open, and in quite a hurry. He would likely be spotted by then, for all they had to do was get up and walk a short way to be able to see him.

This may have been the only way to the rest of the house, but Holmes had no choice but to turn around and go back the other way.

He swiftly went back toward the end of the corridor that had initially been on his left. Again, he cautiously looked into the next room.

There was one man sitting in a chair facing the other door.

Not facing Holmes.

Holmes crept up silently behind the unsuspecting guard, like some jungle cat preparing to pounce. It would have to be just right…he couldn't let him utter a single cry…

In one swift blow, Holmes had struck the man in the back of his head, rendering him unconscious. Immediately, Holmes grabbed the man's revolver from his pocket and, not having any room on his own person, hid it away in a potted plant. The less arms they had, the better. He rushed away to the other door, wanting to be plenty farther along in the house when the man awoke. He quickly listened and, hearing nothing, opened the door. He looked, saw nothing, and slipped in.

Another passageway. This one was lined with doors, and Holmes had a feeling that there would probably be people in this area soon. He knew also that there was a chance that Watson could be behind any of these doors.

Holmes went to the first on his right, pressing his ear to it. Nothing…

He opened the door and peered inside—no one, and nothing of interest. He went to the next, this time on the opposite side of the room. After listening, he heard nothing, and tried to open the door—but found that he couldn't. It was locked. Holmes peered through the keyhole, and inside was utter darkness. There was no reason to pick the lock.

The next door was in a similar situation, and so was the next.

In fact, the next few doors were all locked and dark. Hughes was probably using this area for storage…these rooms were probably formerly the servants' sleeping chambers. Holmes walked with a sigh to the next door, but before he got to listen, his keen ears heard something else.

Footsteps. And they were coming closer.

Holmes's breath caught in his throat. The end of the hall where the unlocked door had been was too far to run to now. Holmes had no other choice. He grabbed the nearest door handle and twisted it.

To his immense relief, it opened. He darted in, shutting the door behind him.

And immediately realised he wasn't alone.

A cry hadn't even time to escape from his lips before something hard made contact with his head, sending his world into blackness.

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**KS: I did it again. I left you hanging on that cliff. I can't help it…it's like ending a sentence with a punctuation mark! Review and tell me what you think! The more reviews, the more likely I am to update. xD**


	13. Reunion

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! And, surprise! Another chapter so soon! Welcome to the thirteenth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. This one I started working on as the silly server wouldn't let me load chapter twelve…I had to do **_**something**_** as I waited! And, lo! this chappie has gone back to a first-person perspective!**

**Enjoy!**

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**I **was quite miserable as I sat, still tied thoroughly, in the room with my captors. I had not eaten in what seemed a very long time—I couldn't reach my watch of course, and the men guarding me would not tell me the time, so I didn't know how long it had been—and my wrists were now raw. They had beaten me well enough that I ached in several places, but I had endured much worse before.

And I knew…Holmes would rescue me. I would be safe in a matter of days at the most. All I had to do was endure and pray that Holmes took great care with this devilish crew.

The door to the room opened, and in stepped Jackson Hughes, a very broad smile on his face that would make any honest man that knew him feel ill.

"Halloa there, Dr. Watson." He said, a sing-song tone to his voice. "Feeling up to talking now?"

I retained my silence. I might easily and unwittingly say the wrong thing.

"I suppose you're still waiting for Mr. Sherlock Holmes to arrive…" Hughes continued dryly, looking at his watch. "It's been a while, hasn't it? He'll arrive in a day or two, I should think. He's got to figure out where we are first, doesn't he? I have more than one house, you know."

My heart fell a bit at that. So that's why Holmes wasn't here yet.

Hughes flashed his grin again. He turned to the door, opening it slightly and putting his face to the crack. "Come on in, sir." He said amiably. The door opened wider, and Hughes looked at me, his eyes flashing with pleasure. I could not imagine what was about to occur next—was it someone else to come torture me? Were they finally going to beat me more?

But I turned sick as I saw who entered. I felt every vestige of blood drain from my face.

It was Sherlock Holmes, heavily tied, who stumbled in, being forced along by two large crooks.

"HOLMES!" I cried out as I saw my friend.

"Watson!" Holmes gasped, his face blanching as he saw me. He stumbled forward, though I saw it was from the men's harshness and the way he was bound more than from ill treatment.

He stared at me with wide eyes and open mouth as they shoved him over to a waiting chair a few feet from mine, securing him just as they had me. Did I really look so terrible as to inspire such a look of horror on my friend?

"Watson, I—" Holmes started, looking at me as if begging for forgiveness. He was abruptly cut off, however, by a sharp slap from Hughes.

"You scoundrel!!!" I cried at seeing my friend thus treated. Hughes turned to me with a smile, then back to Holmes.

"It took you long enough to get here, 'Great Detective'." he said. He stood back a bit, surveying the two of us. "A mighty fine little collection…the detective and his faithful biographer…" he muttered. He turned his full attention to Holmes. "All right, now, Mr. Holmes. Do you remember what I said to you, when I gave you that fair warning?"

He waited, and Holmes gave no reply, save to glare with such force that any normal man would have recoiled instantly.

But Jackson Hughes didn't seem to be a normal man. Though, the grin of pleasure did flee from his face. It was soon replaced by a strong scowl, and his green eyes grew as cold as steel.

"I told you, Mr. Holmes…that you would hurt worse than you ever had. And you _will._ We've been saving a surprise, just for you."

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**KS: Oh, finally, we've arrived at the point I've been striving so long to get to! I say that as if it's been weeks or months…XD;**

**Another chapter MAY OR MAY NOT come to-night. Maybe...it's pretty early, but I might get busy doing something else.**

**Please, please review, I love getting them. xD**


	14. Surprise

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the fourteenth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. This thing is whipping along, isn't it? It took me months to get this far, if I recall, with my other-category stories. xD ****(Which are all old and terrible.) Lord help me, if I keep up this marathon fanfiction writing, I'll never get my series done. XD**

**So here it is! I'm being prodded by KCS to update again! We're finally at where I've been trying to get to, so I hope you enjoy!**

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"We've been saving a surprise, just for you." said Hughes to Holmes.

The villain sauntered about the room thoughtfully. "I know all the stories. A crook tries to fight you, and always loses. Even the ones that are just as smart as you. Know why?" Hughes cracked his knuckles.

"Because, they go after _you."_

He turned around quickly and punched me in my jaw. It was a severe blow--much stronger than the little slaps he had been dealing earlier. This was the force of a boxer, a strong, experienced fighter. I nearly lost my senses at that first punch.

"WATSON!!!" Holmes cried, strugling to get up.

Hughes chuckled. "You're a smart man, Mr. Holmes. We even found that razor you hid in your shirt-cuff to loose yourself if you were caught. You don't care about yourself on a job--that's how you can go at it with all the force of a bloodhound from hell. But...take Dr. Watson here...and, surprise, you're powerless."

He jabbed another fist at me, landing under my ribcage and forcing the breath from my lungs. As I sat there, gasping, I saw the absolute horror on my friend's face. His face, which had already been a little paler and more worn that it was when I had seen it last, was now dead white.

Hughes laughed even more, knowing that he was inflicting such torture on holmes, as he beat me again and again, unrelenting.

Holmes struggled like a mad animal against his bonds, absolutely fearful for me as the blows grew harsher. I was trying my absolute best not to cry out or show the pain, knowing it would hurt him all the more, but I could not disguise my pain as well as I would have liked to.

One well-placed blow drew a shout of agony, which made Holmes's face flush deep red with rage.

"I swear it, Hughes, you'll pay for this!" he growled vehemently, eyes flashing fire.

"You think so?" Hughes asked, pausing from my torture--or, rather, the torture of my friend. "I don't think you'll be around then, if I do."

His fist made contact with my nose, and I felt the warm, fresh blood trickle down.

"Please, Hughes! Watson has done _nothing_ to you!" Holmes pleaded, agonised.

Hughes turned again from me, this time walking over to Holmes and putting his face as close to Holmes's as he could without danger.

"You're right, he hasn't. That's why we've treated him so well thus far. Believe me, Mr. Holmes..." and the devilish grin came to Hughes's face once again. "You're going to get _much_ worse."

He turned to me again, and gave several quick-fire, well-placed punches. He glared at Holmes icily, and then, with a nod, he and all his henchmen started to leave the room.

"Come on," he said coldly. "Let's give them a few minutes to themselves."

As soon as the door closed behind them, I looked up, and for the first time ever, I saw tears welled in Sherlock Holmes's eyes. His face was much softened, and it hurt me to know that his pain was caused by my own.

"I-I'm sorry, Holmes," I said, my voice a little unsteady from the beating just sustained.

"For what? Being kidnapped?" my friend said, his voice deeply concerned. "It isn't _your_ fault, it is _mine_. I should have known he would go after you. I should have warned you--should have made you take your revolver! But now, because of me, because of what a _fool_ I was...oh, Watson...please tell me you're all right."

"I've been worse." I said. And it was completely true. But those days of being worse were when I was younger. True, I was still fairly young, but not quite _as_ young. The beating had taken a lot out of me.

Holmes scrutinised me with darting grey eyes, undoubtedly reading not only my injuries, but how I had been treated, and possibly even what I was thinking.

It was quiet a moment.

"What...are we going to do, Holmes?" I asked. I didn't know if Holmes would know, but whatever his decision, I was prepared to follow it to the last.

Holmes sighed, his weary eyes closing. He looked quite worn, and I can only imagine what he had been through since my dissaperarance.

"Wait. And live." he replied quietly.

"Wait? For what?" I asked. Holmes re-opened his eyes and stared off tiredly into the corner.

"When Mycroft doesn't hear from me, he will surely alert the Yard. But I fear we will not last that long." he said softly. He paused. "If Mycroft is even able." he added.

At the time, I did not know of his brother's condition, so I did not catch the meaning in that last statement and I continued on, as ashamed to say it as I am now.

"So...we must survive until then."

Holmes nodded. He looked over at me.

"I _will_ get you out of here. On my life, I will. Pray to God for that strength."

It touched me immensely to know that Holmes cared for me so. I could see beyond that tired, still face that he truly meant what he said.

"Thank you, Holmes," I said. "I will get you out, as well."

Holmes nodded again. "Thank you."

A tired silence passed for some minutes.

"Holmes," I began softly. "Hughes said that he--that he is going to do much worse to you."

"Undoubtedly." Holmes said quietly, with steely calm. "But...as long as he doesn't strike you, it doesn't matter."

He shifted as best as he could in his bonds into a more comfortable position. "For now, Watson, do try to sleep. I know you need it--you have not slept much, I perceive."

I nodded lightly, my head aching terribly. "Neither have you."

"I will sleep if you will, my dear Watson. Now, please."

"...Of course, Holmes. Good night."

"...Good night, Watson."

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**KS: Oh, how horrid. That was bad enough to write, and it's going to get worse. Review, please!**


	15. Lighten the Mood

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the fifteenth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. I'd like to take this time to mention something I forgot in the last chapter. It's not extremely important, but still. When the thugs knocked Holmes out and searched him for weapons/etc., they took off his coat, so now he's just in his shirt and waistcoat. Okay, now, read on, and please enjoy! This one is in Holmes's voice.**

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We were awoken a few hours later by two more of Hughes's men, who insulted us heavily. I was grateful they had allowed us to sleep for that long. Watson had obviously needed it, and perhaps I did as well.

My sleep, though, had been riddled with dreams. All of them involved Mycroft, either in dream-altered memories or just slightly strange scenarios. Most of them weren't entirely unpleasant—in fact, a few of them had been about happy moments in my life. But, the thoughts struck me as a cruelty of my active mind as I awoke and realised that I didn't even know how my brother was doing at this very moment.

I was brought out of my small reverie as Watson coughed dryly, clearing his throat.

"Can I please…have some water?" he asked tentatively. He looked rather a pitiable figure, his bruises had coloured deeply, and blood was still dried on his face and shirt. My heart went out to him…if only they had beaten _me…_

The stouter of the two men shook his head.

"We've orders not to give you food _or_ water now." He replied sternly.

"Well, that's all right," said I, dryly, "but what about tobacco?"

I saw a slight smile come to Watson's face at that. The two men glanced at each other.

"I can't imagine that the boss would want you to have that, either." One said finally.

"I can go without food, I can go without water, but to make a man go without tobacco is really quite terrible." I sighed, shrugging my shoulders.

I would not let these men have the satisfaction of thinking they were wearing us down. Captive or not, I would keep my confident, cool air.

We had about three days at the most, if Hughes would not let us have water. He probably wouldn't even keep us alive for that long…he must know that the Yard would eventually look for me, at Mycroft's direction. This would be a long couple of days. Hughes would probably try to make the most of the time, torturing us to the fullest extent that he could. And if I didn't get out of here, that devil would remain loose, spreading his criminal influence over two continents.

I set to work trying to loose my hands, only to find that they had done a remarkable job in trussing us up. If only I still had that razor! It was always a prudent idea to secret one in a place I had Mrs. Hudson sew into my shirt-cuff on any endeavour where I might get caught, so that I could easily free myself, but Hughes had uncovered it in his search for weapons.

I looked around as best I could while tied, and saw that there were no windows in the room, and though I could hear a clock, I could not turn my head enough to see it. I had no idea what time it was. And I doubted the two guards would oblige in telling me.

It was excruciatingly boring. I had plenty to do—I just could not do it! I had to amuse myself somehow…pass the time. It would also help to keep Watson's spirit up--we would both need that for the upcomng troubles. An idea came into my mind.

"Surely the Freemasons don't approve of your being one of Jack Hughes's men…he may not be extremely known as a villain, but there are rumours." I said to the guard nearest me, who was leaning up against a table and inspecting his finger-nails.

"Huh?" he muttered, looking up with some surprise. "How'd you know I was—"

"And you," I said to the other, "I suggest roses and a nice dinner, with a good wine."

"…For…what?" the other asked.

"To get your wife to love you again. Though, as Watson will tell you, I'm certainly no romantic, and I could be wrong about that. Especially if your offence was deep enough." I replied.

The two men looked at me with that singular expression of awe, wonder, and confusion I was so fond of inflicting. I saw Watson repressing the urge to smile. He probably did not know the exact details of my deductions, but he knew my ways all the same.

I saw the words of question dancing upon their lips, but neither of them could say anything. I wanted to smile, but I kept my face expressionless. I decided for one more display of power.

"And how are our cousins faring over there in America? I see you've been there recently."

I had struck them speechless for a few moments. It was very amusing.

"How did he do that?" the shorter one asked the taller one.

"I'm not really sure…" the taller replied, staring at me as if I were a wizard. "Oi…how'd you do that?"

"I am Sherlock Holmes," I replied. "It is my _business_ to do that."

I watched as the scoundrel's brows furrowed as they took that in. Apparently, these fellows had not read Watson's romanticised accounts of my exploits. That little display, I thought, would keep these particular guards rather wary around us.

I allowed myself a small smile.

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**KS: Thank you ever so much for reading! Now, please, review! And after you've done that, why not run on over to DeviantART and check out my art there, if you haven't already? (The oldest and newest stuff is terrible—to **_**me,**_** anyways—but there is still a lot there for any Sherlockian to enjoy.)**


	16. With the Flip of a Coin

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the sixteenth chapter of **_**Brother.**_** I hope you're enjoying it! I would've had this chapter posted yesterday, but unfortunately the computer was commandeered by someone else. xD**

**This is a rather short chapter, and I apologise for that, but I've been a little busy. I might update again to-night...especially with the way this ends. I know you'll be wanting me to. xD**

**This one is**** in Watson's POV. Enjoy.**

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I restrained myself from smiling as Holmes dumbfounded the guards with his observations. His face was calm, but he was clearly having fun at their expense. Undoubtedly he was doing it for my benefit as well...I probably looked terrible. I _felt_ terrible, and I ached terribly all over.

But, after some minutes, the immediate awe and wonder of Holmes's abilities wore off a little, though the men still eyed him warily. One went back to the sofa, and the other sat back onto the table. The one on the table near Holmes lit a cigarette and I, who knew Holmes so very well, could see that he wanted one badly. His nerves had been wracked to pieces over the past couple of days. Thank God he had such an iron constitution.

How long had we been asleep, I wondered? I had no idea what time it was. There was a clock on the other side of the room, but with the way it was turned, I could not see what it said. And, of course, I could not reach my watch. I considered asking the guards, but none of the others had told me the time, so I held no hope for these doing so.

I sighed lightly and tried to shift around in my restraints. They were uncomfortably tight, and more than one place was already raw, or close to it. I saw Holmes more than once do the same, but his fidgeting was more likely to be because of restlessness than discomfort. I doubted he was paying very much attention to any physical pains anyway. He probably didn't even realise that he had a great swollen place on his head from where he had obviously been knocked out, and another slight discolouration on his cheek from where he had been slapped.

I wanted to ask him how he was, but I knew it would be unwise to do so with the guards in the same room. If Holmes said he was fine, which would be a normal response from him, the guards would undoubtedly hit him. If he said he was not, the guards would still likely hit him. I felt extremely uneasy about the idea of talking to him at all. I didn't want to bring more unnecessary abuse onto either of us.

It wasn't pleasant, being so close to my friend and yet not being able to speak with him freely. I could tell that he was thinking, however, and so I endeavoured to read his thoughts by watching his features, as he had done so many times to me.

His keen grey eyes were shooting darting, analysing glances all over the room, and his face was as still as if it were set in stone. I thought that he was probably thinking about what sort of manoeuvres he could make if he managed to get free, or something of that nature. He did this for some minutes, and then I saw his eyes lower and gain that far off, thoughtful look. His thoughts were moving deeper. His brows drew together, and his lips set firmly in a frown. It wasn't _quite _like his normal deep-thought expression. It was a little more…sad.

Finally, after some minutes of this, he straightened up with a weary sigh and looked at me. He gave a small smile, as if he knew my occupation. In another moment, however, his head whipped around, as if he had heard something, and a few seconds later the door to the room opened.

Jackson Hughes was back.

By now, the very sight of him was enough to anger me, and I could see by the icy glare Holmes was giving him that he felt the same way…even more so, probably.

Hughes was looking at his watch, but he shut it with a decisively haughty manner and looked at us.

"I thought it was about time for another visit. I would have come earlier, but I thought I would be a gracious host for you gentlemen and let you sleep a while." He said, his smooth, half-English, half-American accent dripping poison with every word.

Four men had followed him into the room, and with a wave Hughes dismissed the two men that had been guarding us. I wondered at just how many hired men he had control over—and how many were in the house.

"I was in a bit of a conflict on what exactly to do next, but I think we'll play a little game to see. I have here a quarter dollar. I shall flip it, and if it lands on Liberty's side, it will be Mr. Holmes's turn for punishment. If it lands on the eagle's side, Dr. Watson will be the one to get it." With a light, playful smirk Hughes tossed the coin into the air, where time seemed to slow as it flipped and fell to the floor. It spun for a moment, but only a moment, before stopping and settling on its side.

I saw plainly the image of the seated goddess Liberty on the exposed face. Suddenly I felt horribly sick.

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**KS: I'm toying with the idea of doing a reward fic for anyone that reviews. Not for this chapter, of course. I've done it before—when a person reviews, I send them a little fic, usually a cute one. But I'm undecided. It's hard enough pumping out a few chapters a day for **_**this**_**, let alone a little story for sending out. xD**


	17. Brutality Unknown

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the seventeenth**** chapter of **_**Brother.**_** I hope you're enjoying it! I tried to write as quickly as I could to get this chapter up as soon as possible! I knew you'd want more after the previous chapter's ending! I also tried to make it a little bit longer, just to make up for some of the last few chapters' brevity.**

**This one ****starts in Watson's POV and moves to Holmes's. Enjoy.**

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I saw Holmes throw his head back with a sigh of immense relief. I then saw as he swallowed, and raised his head back up. He was not looking forward to this. He knew, as I knew, that Hughes would beat him much worse than he had me. My stomach turned.

Now _I _would have to sit here, helpless, as my best friend in the world was tortured before my very eyes. Absolutely, utterly helpless.

God help us.

Hughes stepped over to Holmes, his great athletic form towering over the seated man. "You're so smart that I suppose you know, Mr. Holmes, that this is _not_ going to be like what Dr. Watson received."

Holmes nodded, glaring with steely eyes at him, his face set calmly and firmly.

"Can you at least take Watson away from this room as you do it?" he asked.

"I could," said Hughes. "I really could. That would be the decent thing to do, wouldn't it? He hasn't done a thing against me. But…if he's here, watching as I beat the life out of you, that's just going to make it that much worse." He grinned.

Holmes's eyes flashed franticly, his breath visibly quickening.

He was still thinking about me instead of himself.

I had never known that he felt so strongly of our friendship.

"Why are you doing this!?" I cried desperately. Hughes turned impatiently to me.

"Because, Doctor, your friend here refused to drop the case. If he had continued, I would have to stand in the dock, and would swing for sure. Your friend's no fool in these matters. He sees things done thoroughly. I gave him fair warning, and he refused."

He turned back to Holmes.

"I'm a man that sees things done thoroughly, too. Whatever it may be."

He rushed forward the step or two that separated them like a mad bull and punched Holmes viciously in the face. The force of the blow was enough to send the chair tipping over, and Holmes crashed to the floor with an ejaculation of pain.

I almost cried out for him, but restrained myself with a thought. My calling out to him would only make him worry for me more. I would have to watch in painful silence.

Hughes hauled Holmes and his chair from the floor by his collar before delivering another punch to his jaw. I winced as I heard the blow. Hughes then proceeded to strike my friend repeatedly in the abdomen, each hit drawing a louder cry of pain. A few more well-delivered punches to the face, and Holmes was bleeding from a lip burst in two places as well as from his nose.

It was horrible. Such brutality I had never seen in my life.

I was growing sick just watching as again and again, my dearest friend was struck by this terrible, venomous blackguard. I could not just sit by and watch. The horror was too great. I struggled fiercely against the bonds that held me, but it was to no avail. My chair nearly tipped over, but I could not get free.

Hughes stepped back, wiping the sweat that had formed on his immaculate brow with his sleeve, avoiding his bloodied hand for the job.

"All right, Daniels, Harris, get him up." He said, panting slightly from the effort.

Two of his four henchmen stepped forward and set to work getting Holmes untied from his chair, but making sure he was still secured in his bonds. His feet, legs, arms, and hands were immobile. They then hauled the groaning Sherlock Holmes up from the chair, standing him on his unsteady feet. Hughes surveyed him while taking off his coat.

"Oh, come on, boys. That won't do. Keep his legs tied, but free his feet. He's got to be able to stand on his own."

The two men warily glanced at each other, but did as they were told. They obviously did not want to incur the wrath of their boss, either. Holmes's feet were soon freed, and he had the use of his legs fairly well from his knees down.

"All right, Mr. Holmes. I'm going to give you a bit of a chance. Come on now, this will be fun." Hughes said, rolling up his shirt-sleeves and holding up his fists.

Holmes glared furiously at the man, the intensity of his features enhanced to a frightening level by the damage it had sustained. Quickly, he charged at Hughes, struggling along as he could with only the use of his lower legs, and attempted to drive his shoulder into him.

Hughes easily stepped out of the way and threw a solid punch with his left, but Holmes somehow managed to dodge the blow, nearly toppling himself over in the process. As he struggled to retain his balance, Hughes punched him once in the stomach, and again in the shoulder. Holmes stumbled back, crashing into the wall.

He did not fall, thanks to the wall's support. He pushed himself off and charged at Hughes again. A couple of Hughes's men were laughing at the way Holmes was running, and I sent them a fiery glare of anger so fierce that it quieted them instantly.

Hughes sidestepped and slammed his elbow into the oncoming spare figure, stopping him cold and knocking the wind from him. He delivered several quick-fire shots as Holmes desperately tried to recover his wind, the last of which fell him to the ground.

Unable to catch himself, he fell to his face, heaving in breaths. He rolled over onto his back as Hughes walked up with a grin. The vile man drew his leg back, ready to kick—

And Holmes drew up both of his legs and drove them into Hughes's stomach.

Hughes cried out, stumbling back several feet before being caught by two of his men. He bent over slightly, breathing heavily to regain his own wind, and glared devilishly with his fierce green eyes at the supine figure of my friend. Holmes returned his glare with one equally powerful.

Hughes marched back over to him—being visibly more careful this time—and hauled Holmes up by the ropes around his chest single-handedly, nearly raising him into the air with the force. He gave one last full-force blow to Holmes, eliciting a horrid yell of pain. He then dropped him, and marched toward the door.

"This is only the beginning of this, Holmes. The end is not going to be pretty. Harris, Daniels, tie him back in his chair. I'll be back soon. Count on that."

And he left the room in a great, brooding fury.

The two men from before lifted Holmes, sat him back down heavily in his seat, and retied him securely to the chair. They afterwards left, leaving the other two to watch over us.

I looked at my friend with frightened eyes...he was terribly injured.

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_**HOLMES:**_

I sank gratefully into the chair my captors had forced me into. I made no objection as they tied me tautly to the chair.

I had not told Watson this—it had not come up—but Hughes had won his fair share of boxing championships, both in England and America. The blows he had given were precise and strong. My body would protest any sort of movement for days, so badly was I bruised and battered.

But, I would force my body to obey my will—it would _have _to move. I had a plan now. When the opportunity arose, we could escape. We _would _escape.

I winced and groaned as I tried to shift slightly—my ribs and shoulder, as well as my face and stomach, had received quite a few forceful hits. I forced the pain from my mind as much as possible and drove any semblance of pain from my features. I could not further my troubles by causing Watson any more discomfort at seeing my pain.

Watson.

I raised my throbbing head to look at him, and I saw him staring at me with wide, deeply worried eyes. I saw that he would not speak, for fear of abuse to me from the guards.

"I'm fine, my dear Watson." I said, forcing a smile and keeping a steady voice. "Just look after yourself. We'll be fine."

I knew he did not believe me, but a wave of relief still swept over his features none the less. He was probably happy just to know I still had enough in me to fake being well.

I spat blood onto Hughes's carpet—I'm sure he wouldn't mind. I wished I had water to wash that bitter metalic taste from my mouth, but to hope for it was useless.

I considered telling Watson silently that I had a plan—he could discern my facial features, if I actually wanted to let him—but decided against it. Watson was never one to be able to deceive very well…he was too good-hearted for that. And I could not risk my plan being found out. It would have to remain a secret until the time was right—though, that scenario presented difficulties as well.

I gave my faithful biographer and dearest friend another smile—this time, it was much more genuine. "Try to forget what you've seen to-night, my dear Watson," I said, "and see if you can get some rest. I shall, as well."

He nodded at me, still looking concerned, but looking much more at ease. When he settled down into his chair as well as he could, so did I. I was extremely tired and worn, and I knew that sleep would be beneficial, but I did not attempt rest just yet. I wanted to develop my plan as thoroughly as I could…paying more attention to detail than I ever had before. It must not fail. I would go over every scenario possible.

After that, it would be in God's hands.

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**KS: Oh what a chapter! T-T**

**Isn't Hughes terrible? What are we going to do with him!! **

**Anyways, please, don't forget to review!**


	18. Time

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the Eighteenth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. You know, when I started this fic, I had no real direction to it. And it's turned out quite well so far. Unusual, isn't it? I never expected it to be so popular, either. xD**

**I have a little problem though...I can't remember what time it is in the fic, exactly, because half of my files of this fic are on one computer, the other half on another, so I'm writing this not knowing what time it's supposed to be...so I am guessing...XD Also, I've never been very good at transitional chapters, and this is sort of one of those. **

**This one starts off in Watson's POV, then switches people and perspective, and then it does it again, so it's a little confusing. But please, enjoy!**

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I heard vague noises of speach as I slept, but I was too happy, too unwilling to awake to care for what they were. I wasn't in that hellish captivity in my dreams. I wasn't forced to watch as my dearest friend was beaten within an inch of his life. I was back in Baker Street, by the fire, and Holmes was across from me. We were both smoking our pipes and conversing about the weather...

I woke up to a cry of pain, and looked to see one of the guards pressing his lit cigarette to the back of Holmes's neck. I tried to sit forward quickly, only to cry out in pain myself--I was still quite sore, and of course firmly bound.

Holmes gritted his teeth for a moment or two, but then looked at me with a forced smile.

"Ah, Watson, did you sleep well?" he asked as if nothing had just happened.

"Fairly well," I replied, a little surprised. "How are you feeling?"

Holmes moved his head slightly, a small grimace coming to his features. "I'm fine." he said. "Did you know, Watson, that it is twelve o'clock?"

"...At night?"

"Noon time."

"How did you find out?"

A small smile touched his lips. "I asked. Though, I did have to pay for the information."

"You don't mean--!"

Holmes nodded. That cigarette burn had been the price he had to pay to get the time. It wasn't as if the time was that important...I wondered why Holmes had done such a thing.

I tried to shift around in the ropes, having become quite uncomfortable during the night, and realised that I had become even stiffer and more sore. I looked at Holmes and knew that he must feel absolutely horrid. He was covered in now deeply-coloured bruises, which were in stark contrast to the pale skin around them, and his left eye was surrounded by a terrible blue-black bruise. Every time he moved, I saw pain dash quickly across his features before once again being covered by that cold mask he always wore.

I wondered how long we could hold out if this abuse continued...and worsened.

I knew what time it was now, but I did not know the date. It all seemed so very blurred together. I was extremely hungry, and very thirsty. I knew Holmes was not hungry, not under these circumstances, but I knew that he _must_ be thirsty. Even he knew humans could not go for very long without hydration. We would need something before we died of thirst, if we were to get out of here.

A knock at the door preceded a manservant coming in with a tray. On it were the lunches for both guards. They sat at the small table not too far away from either of us, and began to eat. The smell wafted over to me, and though it was rather simple fare, my stomach growled with a voracious hunger. One of the guards heard it and looked at me.

"Oh, yeah, you're probably hungry, aren't you?" he asked, a small smirk on his face.

I did not reply.

"Well, we can't give you anything. Sorry." he said with a chuckle, turning back to eat.

Holmes furrowed his brow in annoyance, and leaned over as much as he could and spat on the food.

"OI!" the guard said as he jumped up from his chair, red-faced. "Oi! What'd you--You bloody fool!" He picked up his water glass and threw its contents in Holmes's face.

Holmes spat some of the water out, and tried to shake the rest off.

"Thank you for the drink," he said, "but I prefer to drink it from the glass itself."

The man looked as if he was about to throw the glass at Holmes, but stopped, and slammed the object down on the table instead. He slapped Holmes on one of his already present bruises and sat down heavily in his seat with indignation, glaring one last time at Holmes before removing all of the food that had been covered with spit.

Holmes looked and gave me a small smile. I knew he had done it purely because he thought their eating in front of me when they wouldn't even feed me was cruel. And it was. These men had absolutely no compassion or feeling in them at all, it seemed. I thought, perhaps, that the men's cruelty was encouraged by their devilish master, punishment ensuing if they did not comply. Or, perhaps they were paid well enough that they were willing to do anything. Or maybe Hughes just hired the most ruthless men. I did not know which, but I was certainly not happy with their choice of behaviour.

The day went by slowly, and I noticed that Holmes was fidgeting a lot more than usual. I knew he was uncomfortable and terribly sore, but this seemed more like he was supressing great excitement, as I had seen him when a case was getting interesting, or when some great action was about to happen. I wondered what reason he could possibly have to be excited.

Unless, that is, he had a plan.

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_**MYCROFT (Omniscient view) :**_

Mycroft Holmes had been indignantly arguing with the nurse for the past fifteen minutes over the subject of whether he should have another shot of medicine.

The nurse's and doctor's arguments were very good: he could not take medicine orally anymore, due to the fact that his coughing was so violent that he would vomit nearly every time after a fit. He would quickly lose any medication taken that way. But Mycroft _still _did not want any inoculations. Unlike his brother, Mycroft was not overly fond of needles, but there were other reasons as well...like the fact that the doctors wanted the injections in a place Mycroft thought was a little too sensitive.

He was about to argue further when he broke out into another fit of coughing. It lasted a few minutes, and when it finally ended he vomited bile into the pan by his side.

He sighed heavily but cautiously and felt as his stomach twisted. He hadn't eaten in several hours. Every time he tried to anymore, he would throw it back up later. He was quite miserable now. He turned to the nurse and with a nod and sigh, he acquiesced to the medicine. She nodded and left to go fetch one of the doctors. Undoubtedly they would give him something to sleep as well.

Mycroft coughed to clear the mucus from his throat, careful not to incite another coughing fit. He sat up more in his bed and sighed, wiping the sweat from his face. His fever was high, and he felt terrible all over. His lungs ached and burned, and muscles he didn't even know he had were strained with all of the spasms during coughs.

Despite his own illness, he could not help but think of his younger brother.

Sherlock had gone to rescue Dr. Watson from Jackson Hughes nearly two days ago. He had shown and told Mycroft much of the man, and he was truly a cunning devil.

Mycroft had received no message whatsoever since Sherlock had departed. That might not seem so terrible under most circumstances, but he knew that his brother would send him something to affirm he was all right after a certain amount of time when on a case of this much danger. Sherlock would obviously have avoided the police in a matter such as this, and the absence of a message to him would indicate trouble. And it was trouble that Mycroft feared.

That is why, an hour ago, he had sent a letter to Scotland Yard laying out every detail he knew. Knowing those "bunglers," as Sherlock called them, it would take a few hours for them to obtain the necessary warrants and such, and then another hour or so to get to Hughes's home, depending on the train scheduling.

Mycroft only hoped that he wasn't too late.

_Sherlock, what have you gotten yourself into this time..._

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_**SHERLOCK:**_

I could not help but fidget about slightly in my seat, as much as it hurt to do so. I was keenly excited and nervous over the plans I had crafted. I hoped to God that some circumstance would not arise to foil them direly, but I had come up with several other plans to use if certain unfortunate circumstances did arise.

I kept my eyes open, observing with extreme care what I could of the schedule and habits of the house and the men in it. I also kept track of the time closely, ticking off the seconds, minutes, and hours in my head after the guard had obliged to tell me the time. I had paid for it, yes, but it was a small price indeed in exchange for our freedom. When night fell sufficiently, my plans could be put into action, and Watson and I would escape.

Or die trying.

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**KS: I don't really like this chapter, and I need to do more research than I have on Victorian medicine...**

**Anyways, I'd like to ask: What scenes from **_**Brother**_** so far would you like to see illustrated? I am going to do several illustrations for **_**The Adventure of the Curse of Two, **_**but only a couple for this, since it's so long and such. I will, of course, save the illustrating until I'm **_**finished,**_** so it won't interrupt my writing. **

**And, as always, thanks for reading! Don't forget to review!**


	19. Escape

_**Brother**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the nineteenth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. Now, I have to say quickly that just because I make a quick transition in the story, it doesn't mean the time is consistent in the transition. Between this first part and the second, a few hours pass, and between the second and third, time goes back a few hours.**

**Well, enjoy!**

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Lestrade looked at the clock nervously—it had been two hours since the Yard had received that letter from Mr. Mycroft Holmes. Why was it taking so blasted long to get a warrant!?

The superiors, apparently, thought it very shaky grounds to go raid a prominent man like Jackson Hughes's home on such evidence as the letter. Lestrade pointed out that _plenty_ of things had been done on 'shaky grounds' when it came to Sherlock Holmes. And this letter was on his behalf. Mycroft Holmes had even pledged what Government assistance he could just to help.

But it was _still_ taking too long to get that warrant. By the tone of the letter, this was really something to be worried about. "_This is of the utmost importance...Take extreme care with Hughes..._"

The small official detective slammed his fists down onto the desk, his eyes shining furiously.

"We've a job to do! How can we be expected to save a man's life if we must go through all this red tape every time!" he cried adamantly.

His superiors were extremely surprised to see him declare his feelings so vehemently, especially to them.

They agreed that it was a long process. They would try to hurry things along.

Blast it all...Lestrade hoped that Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson could hang on just a little longer, whatever their predicament...

_**HOLMES:**_

I nearly shuddered with excitement when it happened.

Everything lined up neatly all at once. I would have thought it impossible, but it would seem that Providence wanted to see to our escape.

It was six o'clock, time for darkness to have completely fallen, and Hughes was very likely either having supper or getting ready for it. Our guards were eating their meagre meals—one with their back to us, the other mostly turned away.

Everything was as good as it could be, as far as I knew, for our escape. There was one last, extremely important detail left, and I had been working on that for the past few minutes.

I sawed away as silently as possible on the ropes that held me. Both my hands were free, my torso was free, my upper legs were free…All I had left to do was free my lower legs. And to do _that_ without drawing attention would be a real challenge. Thankfully, the guards were rather preoccupied in a conversation about their wives…and their mistresses.

I cautiously drew up one leg and moved an arm along the side of it to keep it hidden—trying also to hide it from Watson. His expressive features might give away my occupation. At last, I had severed the bonds around my legs. I drew my arm back up behind me, and looked once again from the guards to Watson.

The guards were now speaking of things that were vulgar in nature, and Watson, I could tell, was trying his best not to listen to their sordid objectifying of women.

Now was the time to act.

I sprang up from my chair, and with only two punches, both of the unprepared guards were unconscious. Watson's eyes grew wide in an expression of utter surprise.

I smiled. I always loved to astonish my Boswell.

I quickly leapt to his side and sawed away his bonds, doing much better at it now that I didn't have to worry as much about discretion.

"Holmes!" Watson whispered loudly. "How did you—?"

I pulled away his ropes as I finished. "I will tell you later." said I. "Now, we must hurry!"

I went to the door, Watson following close behind, and listened closely for any noise. Nothing. I waited just a moment longer. Still nothing. I opened the door and peered out, and when what I saw confirmed what I had heard, I stepped out.

I knew a little of the lay of the house now from where I had been brought to this room from the one they had put me in whilst unconscious. I was confident that I could get us out…as long as no complications arose.

Lestrade snatched up the warrant and turned to the men that had been provided for the job.

"All right…" said he, the tenacity and determination shining in his face along with the thrill of the work, "Let's be off!"

They hurried to the train, arriving just in time before it departed, and all boarded for the north—to save Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson from whatever peril they may be in from Jackson Hughes.

Lestrade just prayed he wasn't too late.

* * *

**_WATSON:_**

Holmes crept silently along the corridor, making his way a few doors down to the very end and stopping. My heart thrilled within me, both to be escaping and from the excitement of the thing. Holmes pressed his ear to the door, listening intently. Apparently he heard nothing, and he twisted the doorknob and peered inside. I heard him utter a small sound of satisfaction, and he quickly grasped me by the arm and pulled me inside.

It was a bedroom, and was so furnished. It wasn't luxuriant, but was nice enough. I took it to be the room of one of Hughes's men.

Holmes did not stop but pulled me over to the window. He looked out, paused a moment, and sighed with relief. He smiled as he opened it and stuck his head out cautiously.

"Yes, Watson, this will do perfectly." said he, pulling his head back inside.

"For what, Holmes?" I asked.

"For our escape. We will climb down that drain-pipe you see on the corner of the house."

I looked, and the pipe he spoke of was quite some distance away, and our only way to reach it was to walk along a very narrow ledge. I might have under normal circumstances objected--and, indeed, I thought of doing so this time--but I knew it to be our only way out. Especially if Holmes thought it was our best chance.

"I shall go first," Holmes said, putting his long, thin leg outside. The rest of him soon followed, and he was out on the ledge. He looked around once again, watching for guards, and took my hand to help me out. I looked down at the ground far below--we were on the second floor--and I rocked dangerously on the ledge as I stepped onto it. I saw Holmes's pale face blanch further in the bright moonlight that peered through the broken clouds, but I soon righted my balance with his help, and we shuffled along toward the pipe that lay ahead.

Though we were not quite out of danger yet, we were finally on our way to safety and freedom.

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**KS:**** I worked hard on this...and as I edited it, the computer messed up...so I had to start again. XD**

**But, it should be fine as it is now. If you see any glaring mistakes, know that it's my lousy internet connection's fault. **

**Anyways, thank you so very much for reading, and don't forget to review! **


	20. Run for dear life

_**Brother**_

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_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the twentieth chapter of _Brother. _I think you'll be happy to know this is a pretty good sized chapter. I'm not entirely satisfied with it, due to it's a "running scene," and I've never been good with those, but the message gets across. I hope to have the next chapter up to-night, but I'm a little sick, so it _may_ be late.**

**Well, enjoy!**

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We sidled against the wall, quickly but carefully inching our way to the drain-pipe. With every step I feared I would lose my footing and fall. Holmes, I was sure, was much more confident in his steps—he was a much more slender man than I, who was rather strongly built.

But, thankfully, we made it to the drain-pipe without incident. As we reached it and prepared to go down it, however, Holmes lost his footing and slipped. I very nearly cried out, but he had already had grasped the pipe, and his legs swung under him and clung to its sides. He started down, and I carefully followed.

The wind swept around us as we descended, and the metal pipe was icy to the touch and made a good grip difficult to keep, but we kept on and soon reached the bottom. Holmes glanced around the corner of the house, then across the field. Waving silently for me to follow, he started across the lawn toward the wall that surrounded it.

Holmes looked like a phantom or some other figment of fancy; his bruised, pale, drawn appearance was ghostly as it sprinted noiselessly with long, careful strides across the grass in the moonlight.

I knew I probably did not look quite as mystifying or graceful. My limp had worsened from the inaction of my being bound, and I was struggling not just a little at first to keep up with Holmes. Finally, we reached the wall, and he stopped to survey the landscape once again.

As we were looking, I saw a shadow moving among the darkness we were in, and Holmes saw it also, for he grasped my arm firmly. I could tell it was a hound from its outline, and my breath caught in my chest.

Guard dogs!

But, as it moved into the light, Holmes laughed silently. The dog trotted up to Holmes, wagging its tail, his tongue lolling about as the hound seemed to grin at us.

"A friend I made earlier," Holmes said, whispering very quietly in my ear. "I shall tell you later." he added in response to my puzzled expression.

We continued on in the quiet night, now accompanied by the dog, despite Holmes's efforts to get it to leave us.

Holmes again stopped abruptly, grasping my arm and pulling me farther down into the shadows. I looked and saw the outline of a guard making his rounds near the house. They had guards out here as well! Guards, dogs, and such walls...Hughes was either a very nervous or very smart man—and in my experience, I was inclined to believe the latter. But, fortunately, I was accompanying a much more intelligent man than he, and Hughes's men couldn't even compare. The guard did not notice us, and he passed around the corner of the house without incident. As we sat in the shadow of the wall, the thick clouds covered over the moon once again, and we were left in much safer darkness.

We continued on in this darkness, and it began to drizzle rain, getting a little heavier as time went by. It was a miserably cold rain, and as we were without coats or raincoats, we were soon quite wet.

"Blast," I heard Holmes mutter, "We won't be able to listen for trouble as well."

No sooner had he said it than he stiffened up, grasped my arm once more, and pulled me into a dead run.

"What on Earth, Holmes…?" I gasped, almost tripping.

"Dogs, Watson, they've found us!" I heard him hiss back in reply.

Indeed, a moment later I heard the tromping of many feet that Holmes's keener senses must have already discerned, followed by the hounds' baying. Soon after that I heard a shout or two coming from the direction of the house.

Holmes released my arm, but I knew of course to keep running. I heard the animals as they drew closer, and from the corner of my eye I saw our canine companion dash off to meet with his fellow hounds, growling and barking in what seemed like protest.

At least, I thought, it would slow their pursuit of us slightly.

A thought occurred to me as we ran, and I looked over at my friend.

"How did you free yourself?" I asked, hardly able to believe it.

Even in the dim light I saw the corners of Holmes's thin lips curve upward.

"When I first surveyed the room I saw a broken piece of glass on the floor, and when Hughes untied me it was the perfect opportunity to get it."

"So—" I paused slightly, running out of breath, "So you fell on purpose?"

"I did several things on purpose. I'm sure, my dear Watson, that if I didn't fear for your safety I could have given him a much better challenge."

I was amazed at this revelation. But, I had very little time to ponder on it as we ran for our very lives. I heard more voices from behind as the house realised that we had escaped. If we did not hurry, it would not take much for them to track us down.

And then much more caution would be taken with us…and much more abuse given.

The very thought quickened my pace and drove the thought of the miserable weather and my pained body from my mind. I could tell Holmes was thinking like thoughts, for he too moved faster.

Soon—but hardly soon enough for me—we reached the wall, and with amazing agility Holmes sprang up, grasping the top and hauling himself upward. He quickly turned, lowering his hands for me to grab.

"Jump, Watson!" he cried.

I doubted for a moment that he would be able to support my weight as precariously as he was balanced on the wall, but I had not a moment to lose, so I likewise jumped up and grasped his thin hands.

With that strength that he seemed hardly able to possess Holmes pulled me over after him, and we were forced to jump from the top to the damp ground below.

As we landed, we broke off into a run again. Having absolutely no knowledge of where I was or where to go, I relied on Holmes fully to lead the way. To our left was a low wall. Beyond that was a road and a few sparse trees. To our right, there were a few trees scattered across the great field. There was no cover out here.

It was then that I began to fear that our flight was in vain.

If the house knew we had fled, they would undoubtedly pursue on foot, horseback, and any other way they could, for we held a secret that would undoubtedly be their undoing, getting them all either the rope or gaol. And we were two beaten, weary, dehydrated men running on sheer will.

I already felt exhausted.

I began to doubt whether we would make it or not.

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Lestrade beat nervously with his fist on the armrest of the seat as the train he was on rattled along. It was late…too late…He had a sick feeling that he should have been there earlier. He knew very well and felt very deeply that police procedure was important...but...he had a bad feeling about this business.

He had seen many a terrible thing during his time on the force, but…

If he was forced to see the dead bodies of Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson, he didn't think he could handle it.

He looked at his watch. The train should be nearing the station. Just a little longer.

He pulled out his revolver and checked it over once more.

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I was growing breathless very quickly. I had no idea where we were going. I prayed to God that Holmes did, for I knew our pursuers could not be very far behind us.

I wiped the rain water that was running down my face from my eyes. My skin was numbed with the chill…if we _did_ survive this, we would probably catch a cold, or worse, pneumonia. I nearly slipped once or twice on the wet grass, but, the water did serve well in a minor aspect—it felt wonderful as it ran over my dry lips.

"Holmes," I gasped out, "Where are we going?"

"Just keep running, Watson! There is a train station ahead—just keep running!"

A train station! There would be people, and little to no chance that Hughes's men could try anything! Hope surged through me, giving me much needed energy.

Holmes was just a few feet in front of me. I wasn't sure if he was going much slower than he could go because of me or because of his injuries. I hoped it wasn't the latter, for if it were, he might overstrain himself, and not be able to continue. I prayed he didn't stress his injuries too much during our flight, for we had no choice but to run.

I saw dim lights ahead through the darkness and rain…as well as heard the low thunder of horses' hooves from behind.

"There, Watson!" Holmes gasped out. "The—Train station!"

I heard the thinly veiled pain in his voice. He was probably in agony.

He leapt over the low wall and started across the road toward the station in the distance. I followed, but felt my stomach sinking again. It was still quite far, and the rumbling of the horses was drawing steadily closer. Holmes grasped my arm and drew me close to him. We would help each other along, no matter what. Together, we would live or die.

And we were determined to live.

Finally, we were in sight of the station. It was so near. There still were no people in sight, but that would soon change. Soon, we would be much safer. Not entirely safe, but much more so.

As we drew closer, almost completely there, a rush of wind and colour passed us, and in a moment Jackson Hughes was before us on a great brown steed.

He levelled a revolver at us.

"Gentlemen," he said, sounding extremely displeased, "it's impolite to leave without saying good-bye to your host."

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**KS: We draw ever nearer to the end with each passing chapter! And, also, I'll have you know that I've decided what will happen to Hughes. But I won't say what it is yet! **

**Thank you for reading, and do not forget to review! The more I get, the faster I update! **


	21. Capture

_**Brother**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the twentieth chapter of **_**Brother**_**. The end is drawing nigh…I hope you don't all kill me for it. Here we go! I'm going as fast as I can while retaining quality! Unfortunately, I had to go wash my nephew's baby-bottles and do some other stuff, and then the chapter didn't want to load...silly connection...and then the chapter winds up being small...!! Well, I HAVE given you long chapters recently. The last was the longest I've done yet. **

**This one starts out in Holmes's perspective. **

**Enjoy!**

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For once, I wished sorely that this wasn't a case where everything went against me. I stared at that revolver and realised I had made a terrible mistake: when we fled from our captivity, we should have taken our guards' pistols.

We were completely, utterly defenceless. Just mere seconds away from relative safety, and we had nowhere to go.

I grasped Watson's arm more tightly. This was it. Our end had come. My mind was drawing a complete blank. For once, I could think of no idea to save us.

We had no possible way to take the gun from him, for he was high up on his horse. We could not run, not while he was on a horse, and not while he stood between us and safety—there was no cover to run to, besides.

Now that we had escaped, Hughes was obviously not pleased, and would waste little time in disposing with us.

"Now, come along. You've had enough exercise," said Hughes, motioning with his gun for us to turn around.

"Wait…right there," a familiar voice called, accompanied by the sounds of a cart drawing close along the wet gravel road and the clicks of multiple pistols.

Hughes's face blanched.

I relaxed my death lock grip on Watson's arm, feeling as if an immense weight had been lifted from my chest. I took up my normal, calm expression, despite the fact that I was quite elated.

"Lestrade," said I, "What kept you so long?"

The Scotland Yarder was in a cart, along with a few others of the force, and they were followed by another few carts likewise filled. Most of them had their pistols out and aimed at Hughes.

Lestrade smiled lightly. "Police procedure. You know how thorough we are at the Yard, Mr. Holmes."

Hughes turned slowly toward them, his face deadly calm, but I could see that he was unnerved by the slight tremors in his features.

"The Yard? Unusual to see the London force so far out at a time like this." He said dubiously. He shot a furious, questioning glance to us. I simply smiled calmly, and with a sneer he turned back to Lestrade.

"This does not look good for me, gentlemen, I'll admit that." he said, lowering his gun.

"No," Lestrade said, jumping down from the cart with a few other officers. "It does not, indeed." He walked up to Hughes, stopping a good few yards away from the horse warily, keeping his gun trained on the man's head. "I'll ask you kindly to please step down from that horse and come with us quietly. And, if you don't mind, dispose of that revolver."

Hughes hesitated at first, but soon tossed his pistol down into the mud on the side of the road. He leapt down from the horse and walked over to the Inspector, his strong form towering over the small, wiry official detective. Lestrade, however, held his gun steady, and the expression of calm professionalism never fled from his face for a moment.

"All right, men, fit the derbies on him." he said. Hughes did not resist the restraints, but looked evilly at Watson and I.

I read murderous intentions in his eyes, but now there was nothing he could do.

Lestrade then walked up to us, looking us over.

"Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, are you all right?" he asked, worry lining his features.

I looked at Watson, who smiled broadly at me. We had escaped. The vile criminal had been captured.

"I think we are just fine, Lestrade." I replied, setting my hand on Watson's shoulder. "Just a bit tired."

A little of the concern faded from his ferret-like face, but not all. He did smile, however.

"I'm glad to hear so. But I think you'd better get into the cart and let the boys take you to the station and get you warm and dry." He said. "We'll see to the rest of Hughes's house."

As much as I wanted to protest…the prospect of being dry and comfortable was rather tempting. And I knew if I went along with the police to assist, Watson would want to come along as well, and he needed rest. Lestrade would be capable enough to finish things off.

"Thank you, Lestrade." I said. I led Watson to the cart, and we rolled off toward safety, comfort, and peace, while Jackson Hughes rolled away to his fate.

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**KS: Whee, we're almost done! Almost! Almost! I know, I still have to settle the matter with brother Mycroft, etc. Things will wrap up! Perhaps to-night, perhaps to-morrow, but regardless, I do hope you enjoyed the chapter. I think you for reading, and please review! **

**And again, I remind you, that if you see anyting you'd especially like illustrated, tell me in PM or a review!**


	22. Finale

_**Brother**_

_**DISCLAIMER: I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any of the affiliated characters or ideas--their creator is the remarkable Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.**_

**KS: Halloa! Welcome to the twenty-second chapter of **_**Brother**_**. You know what? I think I put in the intro that the last one was the twentieth again…oops. **

**Many thanks go to KCS, who read this the final chapter before I posted it to help me polish it off to be the best it can be for your reading enjoyment. I followed her suggestions and redid two parts a bit. **

**This one starts**** in Holmes's perspective.**

**Enjoy!**

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Back at the station, Watson and I dried and warmed ourselves, and we were given tea and sandwiches to replenish our strength. I gave a few particulars to Lestrade when he dropped in to see about us, and in about an hour and a half we were on a train back to London. Part of me was loath to leave the scene of action, but I could not help but return to the Great City. I still felt a dire need to go and be with Mycroft, and Watson had been under enough stress to warrant a good, long rest at home.

"Holmes," Watson said as the train rattled along.

I had been thinking, but I pulled myself out of my reverie to reply.

"Hm?"

"I shall try to be more careful in the future." He said.

I furrowed my brow.

"Watson…" I began softly, "I've already told you, it was entirely my fault. I neglected to see that Hughes was a danger to you as well. I should not have let you go out without your revolver, let alone go out alone." My eyes fell to the floor. Again the painful thought of how close I came to losing him ran through my mind.

He was the only one in the world I could trust, besides Mycroft. And soon, he would be the only one…

He was my only friend. And a better friend no one could ask for. I should have been more thoughtful.

"Watson," I started, but when I looked up, he was reclined in his seat, a peaceful smile on his face. The train had rocked him to sleep.

I smiled. I wouldn't wake him until we reached the station. He needed the rest.

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_**WATSON:**_

Sherlock Holmes and I returned with extreme gratefulness to the comfort and safety of Baker Street. When we arrived I found to no surprise that the place was a complete and utter mess. Holmes did not offer to explain it, nor did he have to—though I could tell as Mrs. Hudson brought us our tea once we had returned that she was greatly displeased about it.

As soon as we arrived I tended more adequately to Holmes's injuries—he had sustained bruised ribs among the other bruises, and he seemed to be catching a cold from our excursion in the rain. While I saw to his battered body, he told me of his brother's condition. My heart sank.

Mycroft was…dying? And Holmes had left him to come rescue me single-handedly.

"Holmes," I said quietly, "Why did you not send the police instead and stay with Mycroft?"

"…Because, Watson, had I done that, they would have killed you before the officials could get inside. Hence, I knew I had to break in to rescue you."

I finished bandaging him up and he stood, going over to the mantelpiece to fetch a much-needed cigarette.

"I'm going to go visit him now," he said. "I cannot imagine what he will say when he sees this." he added, gingerly touching the hideous bruises on his face with a small smile as he looked into the mirror. "He hasn't seen me this bad since the Henderson-Smith counterfeiter case—before your time, I think, Watson."

His face deepened as he turned back around to face me. I could see that he was immensely concerned about his brother. He stared at the carpet thoughtfully, lighting his cigarette and sticking his free hand into his trouser pocket. He then looked up at me.

"Are you feeling up to going? You don't have to if you're still tired." he said.

"Of course," I replied. I knew he wanted me there for support, though he would not say it.

A soft smile touched his face. "Thank you." he said softly.

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"Good Lord, Sherlock! What have you done now!?"

Mycroft Holmes was propped up by several pillows in his bed, looking quite pale and worn. He had sat up farther as he saw his brother and I enter, his eyes widening somewhat, but by the look on his face I saw that this was not entirely unexpected.

"I've rescued Watson, Mycroft," Holmes replied, as if his appearance was commonplace.

Indeed, I wondered at how many times Mycroft had to keep Holmes out of trouble when they were lads—surely this lack of concern for his own safety was no new thing. I nearly laughed at the thought. The turn of my friend's face from jesting to sombre kept me from doing so, however.

"Brother, how are you feeling?" Holmes asked.

"Other than having a bit of pain from being injected so many times in the—" Mycroft settled his rising agitation before resuming his statement, "Other than a little soreness, I feel fine, Sherlock."

Holmes did not look convinced.

"Really, Mycroft," he said softly. "How are you?"

Mycroft let a small smile spread across his great face.

"I think you will be happy to know that the pains I've received because of the inoculations weren't in vain," he said. "They say that I shall make a full recovery."

I have never seen such joy sweep over my friend's face in my life. I shall never forget how a tinge of colour rose to his thin, bruised, and sallow cheeks, and how that smile spread so thoroughly across his sharp features, from his face to his eyes.

He quickly stepped across the room over to his older brother, as effusive as I've ever seen him.

"Mycroft, that's—That's wonderful!" he said.

The look of utter happiness and surprise lessened, but the tight smile, dancing eyes, and coloured cheeks still spoke of immense relief.

"Yes, it is." Mycroft said, smiling at both the news and his brother's actions. "I don't know what they would have done at Whitehall without me."

Holmes chuckled at that.

"Indeed." he said. "They would be forced to use their heads, and government officials, as I understand, aren't generally used to that."

It was Mycroft's turn to laugh.

It was a warm scene as the two Holmes brothers conversed. They did not let their full relief and thankfulness show, but one who knew their ways knew it was there.

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_**HOLMES:**_

I was unspeakably relieved at Mycroft's statement. I had recovered Watson, and now my doomed brother had been recovered as well. I could not stand the thought of losing either of them.

"So, Doctor," Mycroft said, looking Watson over. "It seems you fared better than Sherlock, and you were the one captured!"

"Well, Holmes was captured, too, but he managed to free us. It was quite a feat." Watson said admiringly. "He even took a beating just to acquire the necessary piece to cut through the ropes that held us."

I could not bear to tell Watson that he was captured solely to be bait to draw me to Hughes's estate. I had found that out from Hughes's own vile lips before he took me to see him. Watson, if he knew, would never forgive himself, and might try to separate himself from me so as to not endanger me like that again.

I did not want to lose him. So, I would not tell him.

Mycroft looked at me with a slightly raised brow. He had deduced Hughes's reason for capturing Watson, then. I sent a silent facial reply to my brother—and he understood.

Watson did not notice our unspoken discourse, and I was again thankful that he was not as perceptive as I. He was happy that we were safe, and he would remain that way.

Mycroft coughed harshly, but it did not sound nearly as bad as it had when I left a few days ago. He looked up at us with his great grey, watery eyes.

"I am still possibly contagious, Sherlock. And you are not in any condition to be around me, for I perceive you are rather congested yourself." he said.

I cleared my throat lightly. Watson had said I might be catching cold, and I started to think he was right.

"I suppose not." I said with a slight smile. "Come, Watson. I think we could both rather use some rest, and I know brother Mycroft does for sure."

And once again, we set off for Baker Street, to readily await the next adventure we would be thrust into.

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_One Month Later_

_**WATSON:**_

Holmes threw the newspaper bitterly across the room with an oath. I looked up, surprised at my companion's strange behaviour.

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked.

Holmes had sunk broodingly into his chair, his chin resting on his fist as he stared into the fire.

"It is Hughes." He replied. "His sentence is only life imprisonment."

I dropped my teacup, which spilt all over the table.

"H-how?" I gasped. "Surely the evidence—"

"The evidence," Holmes sighed, "was mostly destroyed. Gone. After we had made our escape, Hughes's men burned many of his papers. And as I said before, my case was not complete. So with our kidnapping, the loss of the papers, and much money at his back….they could not get a jury to convict him of everything."

He was quiet a moment.

"Many of his men had enough evidence against them to be hung. The rest were sentenced to hard labour."

I could not believe my ears. The man that was so devilish, so _evil_, would not see the gallows.

"At least, Watson," Holmes began as if to answer my thoughts, "He will rot in gaol. And, for a proud man like Hughes…perhaps that is a fate worse than death."

And that seemed to be the end of the singular Jackson Hughes affair, which very nearly cost us both of our lives.

Little did I know that it wasn't the last time we were destined to hear that name.

_**FIN**_

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**KS: There it is, the end! **

**I ****dearly hope you enjoyed! I know I had fun reading the reviews! So, review, please! Tell me what you thought of it all! **

**And if I can get out of this artist's block, I shall have a few illustrations at my DeviantART account!**


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